


No Vacancy

by juliairian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A.G.R.A., Captain John Watson, Case Fic, Christmas, Dancing, Drinking Games, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Fluff, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Holmes Family Feels, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson In Love, Love Is Difficult, M/M, Mary Fixer, Mary Ships It, Mary isn't terrible, Mary's Past, Meet the Family, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft is a Softie, Mycroft's Meddling, New Year's Eve, Not that much of a case fic, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Returning Home, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock in Love, Slow Burn, slow realisations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 03:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 103,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14583954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliairian/pseuds/juliairian
Summary: Six months after the Fall, Mycroft urgently recalls Sherlock to London when his surveillance reveals that John has begun dating a former assassin.





	1. Going Back

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so: I've always wondered how unlike Mycroft it was to never really check in on John during Sherlock's "death". Somehow, I thought that it would have been quite in character for Mycroft to (literally) keep a close watch on John after him being threatened by a sniper and all. And wouldn't he, as the spying enthusiast he is, take a passing, casual interest in new people in his life? People that might replace Sherlock, who wasn't actually dead? People who may have secret assassin past??? Seriously, Mycroft in the show basically always knows everything about everyone all the time, and he even knows about A.G.R.A.! So let's call this story my Mary-fixer: I like her, but I think she'd be better off as their friend in my Johnlocked head :-)
> 
> The dates of when the Fall happened are conflicting: The newspapers seen in the episode suggest November but John’s blog puts it in June. I decided to go with John’s blog because I wanted the timespan to be roughly six months and I had already sketched a few Christmas scenes for this. Yep, that’s my only excuse, hope you can live with it ;-)

**December 2011, somewhere on the Russian border**

"I've been keeping tabs on Dr Watson," was the first thing Mycroft said as soon as he and Sherlock were alone.

They entered the dingy little hut somewhere along the Russian-Belarusian border, nestled between barren hills. The last leg of this forced trip had made short work of a rather vicious criminal network that smuggled state secrets from the East to the West and vice versa. Sherlock had been instrumental in discovering the right people to arrest, the correct bank accounts to freeze and which employees to interrogate back home in England. Moriarty’s remaining network was crumbling beneath the combined power of the Holmes brothers, and Mycroft bemoaned the fact that he and Sherlock did not usually cooperate so well. Nothing about the situation was ‘usual’, of course.

But Mycroft didn’t need to be here, in person, to talk about the mission. Sherlock sighed and walked over to the messy corner bed. He dropped onto the mattress with a thump, looking like a long-limbed marionette whose strings had been cut. His face was ashen and he wore quite an impressive beard by now. It had been just over six months and the forced exile was taking its toll. "And how is John?" Sherlock’s voice was soft, as always when he spoke of his friend. Mycroft saw the lines of worry on his face, the dark circles under his eyes.

"He is... coping. I believe," Mycroft said, carefully sitting down on a rickety wooden chair. The tiny shed did not offer much in the way of amenities, but it worked as a safe hiding spot for Sherlock for now. He’d been here for several days, and Mycroft felt at least a little bit relieved to see empty food cans on a counter; at least his brother was not sulking himself into starvation.

Sherlock huffed. It wasn't clear whether he didn't believe Mycroft or whether his brain couldn't accept the fact that John had no choice but to try and cope. He deliberately hadn't told Sherlock how his best friend had _coped_ by simply sitting in his chair for hours every day, staring at Sherlock’s empty place opposite. Or about the more self-destructive tendencies John had displayed for some time after that, trying to solve some of Sherlock’s open cases. It had not been pretty. Mycroft had observed and acted unseen in the background if it was necessary, hoping to spare John the occasional unpleasantness. He never let him know he was involved, but sometimes, John would stand by the window of 221B and stare out, directly at the camera in the building opposite, looking like he knew. The resignation on his face had been hard to bear, even for someone as composed as Mycroft.

He’d never admit it to Sherlock, but this close friendship had, as he’d hoped, been the making of his brother. He was still unpleasant, rude and impossible to work with. Still a pig-headed fool, but a fool with a friend.

"Yes. Well. I'm worried, to be honest." Mycroft thought he'd raise the topic slowly to see how Sherlock would react.

Immediately, Sherlock’s head snapped up, his piercing eyes searching Mycroft’s face. "Why?"

Mycroft regarded him warily. Sherlock was impulsive. He needed to tread carefully with this. "As I said, he has begun to readjust to life without you. He's... seeing someone."

Sherlocks face fell just a fraction, but it was enough for Mycroft.

“Well.” Sherlock swallowed. Mycroft made a further mental note that the long isolation had evidently softened, if not cracked, his brother’s usually so immaculate façade of detachment. “That’s good isn’t it? Why are you worried?”

Mycroft had, by now, deduced all that he needed to know to make his final decision on the matter. He reached into his leather attaché case and pulled out a file labelled “CONFIDENTIAL”. He hesitated for a moment before handing it over, but decided on full disclosure, for once.

“John has been out several times with a nurse working at his clinic. Her name is Mary Morstan – at least, that’s what she goes by these days.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in interest and flipped open the file. He glanced at the picture before skimming the pertinent data. His face remained passive and he was quiet for a while after he finished reading, staring at the page. Finally, he gave a short huff. “Typical,” he muttered, but there was something forgiving in his voice.

“I thought you might appreciate the irony,” Mycroft nodded. He felt a smile tug at his lips. They both understood the unassuming army doctor’s secret proclivity for danger. It was what made him and Sherlock so suited to each other, after all. “However, Dr Watson doesn’t know about Miss Morstan’s previous employment. So far, the most _exciting_ thing they’ve done is seeing a particularly gruesome horror film.”

Mycroft saw something flash in Sherlock’s eyes. It looked a lot like jealousy, and since Mycroft was aware how possessive Sherlock could get, it didn’t come as a surprise. Another point in favour of his choice of actions. “Tell me, do you enjoy stalking people wherever they go?” Sherlock sneered. Of course, he would lash out as a reaction to feeling jealous. Perfectly adequate emotional reaction, Mycroft observed.

“No, actually, I have far better things to do,” he replied, lifting his chin a little. “Like travelling to the middle of nowhere to see if my dear brother is still in one piece.”

“So what about her, then? She’s undercover? Sleeper agent? Foreign intelligence? Just bring her in and get her away from John,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Well,” Mycroft allowed with a nod in Sherlock’s direction. “I would, but she appears to have… what is the phrase? ‘ _Left it all behind._ ’ For all intents and purposes, she is a trained nurse. I checked her credentials.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and nodded in acknowledgement of the facts. “So…?”

“We can’t just arrest her for changing _careers_ ,” Mycroft began. “But we have reason to believe that there is someone who does not approve of Miss Morstan’s new life. She is being followed.”

Sherlock straightened again and carelessly threw the folder aside. He leaned forward and his bright eyes pierced Mycroft’s. “And therefore, so is John?”

“Precisely.” Mycroft carefully picked up the folder again, making sure all the stray papers were tucked safely inside.

Sherlock jumped up and began pacing the small cabin. He rubbed a hand vigorously through his shaggy hair. “So why come to me?” he burst out. “Why come all this way and tell me, in person? You didn’t tell me anything else about him – I’m guessing out of some misguided attempt to protect me,” Sherlock added fiercely. “As if I didn’t know how John would react,” he added, almost to himself.

_Do you?_ Mycroft wondered. _Because I think you really don’t._ If Sherlock really could have deduced the sorry decline of his friend, he probably would have gotten up straight after his supposed Fall, brushed himself off, walked back to Baker Street and never left John on his own again.

But Sherlock was on a roll now, so Mycroft simply sat there, watching him with a certain clinical detachment, wondering if his little brother even recognized, let alone understood that strange, tortuous feeling burning in his chest. He didn’t envy him for it, but strangely enough, Mycroft found that neither did he pity him. _It is what it is_ , he thought.

“But you’re here to tell me this, even though you’ve probably got a whole team of people watching them back home, and there’s nothing I can contribute to it; unless you—“ he spun around. “You want me to go back,” he stated.

Mycroft inclined his head. “I would argue that you have done all you can, here,” he allowed. “We’ve got the names and can follow them up with several teams. You’re not a trained agent, Sherlock. You’re a detective. And just one man.” Sherlock straightened a little and his chin twisted upwards with a little of the familiar pride – it made him look more like himself than he probably had in months. Mycroft got up from the uncomfortable chair and mirrored the gesture. “If we find more puzzles along the way, I’ll be sure to pass them on to you. But for now… it’s time you returned.”

Sherlock searched his face, his eyes narrowed, looking for signs of deception. “I may not be an agent, Mycroft, but I was doing fine out here on my own,” Sherlock said. He didn’t sound injured, merely suspicious. “The baboons on your special ops teams will miss vital clues and destroy evidence, which could set you back months. I’ve gotten you this far. Why pull me out now?”

“You don’t want to go back?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned and huffed impatiently. “Of course I do. But I don’t see—“

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted. “You are _needed_ back in England.”

He was satisfied to see that that shut him up. Sherlock began pacing again, as much as the space allowed. Finally, he stopped, turned, and gave Mycroft another searching glare. And then, to Mycroft’s immense relief, he dropped the subject. He would have hated to spell it out for him, and he feared that if he did, Sherlock would refuse to go back simply to be _contrary_. And this was too important an issue to jeopardize. At least, it was to Mycroft.

Sherlock nodded once, and the matter was settled.

**London, July, one month after the Fall**

John Watson sat in his chair, his bare feet curled into the carpet, lost to his thoughts. He stared unblinking out of the window. The summer heat of the day was finally fading, the sun had long dipped behind the tall London buildings. John had no idea how long he had been sitting still. He hadn’t yet bothered to turn on the light, so he sat in the slowly growing darkness, staring at the empty chair in front of him. The silence in the flat pressed heavily on his ears.

_There’s stuff that you wanted to say, but you didn’t say it. Say it now._

John’s fingers pressed into his armrest. His throat closed up and he felt his eyes burn. For what felt like the hundredth time that day – that week? – he fought it until it stopped. Until he felt perfectly calm again. And empty. He continued to stare at the vacant space until the darkness enveloped him.

 

**August, two months after the Fall**

John glanced once again at the piece of paper the homeless man had pressed into his hand before disappearing into an alley. He memorised the facts and stuffed into his pockets. With the reassuring weight of his Browning tucked under the waistband of his jeans, he made his way to the nearest tube station.

Two hours later, he was sitting on the back of an ambulance, an orange rescue blanket around his shoulders. Detective Inspector Lestrade was staring at him, his eyes full of pity. John wished he was shouting at him again, as he had up until that point. About how reckless it was of him to go into the hideout without backup. How he could have been killed. How he should have known better. Behind him, John saw three figures being led in handcuffs into police cars. One, he knew had a dislocated shoulder. That was the first thing that had given him a certain satisfaction that night. He felt effective, somehow; not just a useless former sidekick trapped in an empty flat.

But Lestrade was done with his ranting and had begrudgingly thanked him; and when he saw that that had almost no effect on John whatsoever, he had shut up. And now there was only the relentless pity in his eyes, the knowledge that nothing whatsoever could be said that would make it better. Yes, he definitely wished he was still shouting at him.

 

**September, three months after the Fall**

Lestrade brought the news around personally. He skipped up the stairs, taking two steps at a time as far as John could tell. He was sitting in his chair, an untouched cup of tea on the side table, and didn’t turn around when the DI entered.

“It’s done,” Lestrade announced. John looked up to see him waving a newspaper around before slapping it somewhat triumphantly onto the sofa table. He sat down on the sofa and leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at John. “It’s out now. Press conference yesterday, every newspaper printed it today. Have you seen it?” His face showed a mixture of satisfaction and chagrin, pity mixed with anxiety about John’s response.

John cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts. “Uh, no, I haven’t.” When Lestrade held out the paper to him, he declined. “I don’t— I mean, I know what it says,” he managed. “But… that’s good.”

Lestrade twitched, but tried a smile. John had told him off for always looking at him like a sad puppy and that moniker had made the DI at least try to keep a straight face when talking to him.

“We couldn’t have done it without you, John,” he said with a small smile. “Your evidence, the people you dug up, the blog, no less… it all helped a great deal to exonerate him.”

John wanted to snap at him, to tell him that his faith in Sherlock should have never wavered in the first place, but he knew how officials and rules and regulations could get in the way of honest gut feeling. He blamed Sergeant Donovan a great deal, but he had forgiven Greg.

“I didn’t have to dig much,” John allowed with a shrug. “Many people actually came forward on their own to help, to send in testimonies… Henry Knight kept in touch,” he added as an example. Some surprisingly nice things had come to light after Sherlock’s death. It had been rewarding to see how many lives he had touched and that even though he had been such a rude bastard to most of them, they forgave him all and considered him worth the effort of clearing his name. Rather touching, that. He only wished Sherlock had known.

“That’s good,” Lestrade said with feeling. “Say, I know it’s still early, but fancy going for a pint?”

John sighed. “I— I don’t think I feel very much like celebrating.”

Greg looked a bit embarrassed. “Of course. Sorry—“

John rubbed a hand down his face. He got up from his chair and walked over to the window. Lestrade had gotten up, looking unsure whether he was being dismissed or not. John let his gaze wander, not sure what to say anymore. _Might as well be honest_. “The truth is, Greg,” he began, then had to clear his throat again. He was beginning to feel his voice choking, his breath trapped painfully in his chest for a moment. “I knew who he was all along. He thought I doubted him, at the end. But I never—“ He had to stop as his voice deserted him, his throat seizing up.

Lestrade looked remorseful. “I never should have doubted him. And I wish he had told us more about the whole Moriarty thing. Maybe there was something we could have done,” he added, a sentiment he and John had shared a few times already.

John said, “I know.” Lestrade departed soon after, leaving the newspaper behind. It took John three days to finally glance at it, and he was right. He knew everything that was in there; he’d known it all from the very start.

 

**October, four months after the Fall**

Harry was nursing her fourth drink that night, whilst John was still cradling his first pint. It slowly grew warm and stale under his palms. His arm was still in bandages from where he had broken it the month before, chasing someone through the streets. A lead. A criminal. It didn’t really matter. And on some subconscious level that he tried not to think about, John knew that had Sherlock been with him, he would not have been injured. He would have paid more attention, been more alert, and most importantly, been too busy watching Sherlock’s back. The irony of the situation left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had tried to do it all again, but it wasn’t the same on his own. Obviously.

So he had finally acknowledged the futility of trying to pick up where Sherlock had left off – even though, after the famous consulting detective had been publicly exonerated, the requests for John’s attention increased for a time. Most of them had been newspapers trying to get the exclusive interview with the ‘faithful sidekick’, but John had ignored them all. He solved a few minor cases, if you could call them that. They were things Sherlock would never have bothered with. Boring, simple, not interesting at all. But it had been a good distraction, brought in a little money, and he had gotten his arse kicked a few times; so that made John feel a little better. It felt right that he was being punished for letting Sherlock die on him without doing anything to prevent it.

However, despite what Lestrade – and probably Mycroft, with all his surveillance – thought, John didn’t have a death wish. After he’d broken his arm, he’d officially stopped with the cases. He took  the DI, as well as Harry, up on their offers and went to the pub on occasion, thinking that it was at least something to get out of the flat for.

Harry was prattling on about how she could handle the drink so much better these days. About how she hoped to hear from Clara tomorrow, who she was phoning more often these days. John had heard that story before, but he didn’t comment on it. Let at least one of them labour under happy delusions for a while longer.

_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Just for me, just stop it._

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and shoved the memory away. He was beginning to get better at it. However, as he finally finished his beer, Harry looked at him with concern again. “John, you need to—“ she broke off.

“What? What do I _need_ to do, Harry?” John noticed his voice was gravelly and rough from basically sitting in silence for two hours. He sounded angrier than he really felt.

“You need to get over this,” she stated firmly.

John couldn’t muster the energy to defend himself. “No, I don’t,” he said obstinately, and placed his palms on the table, ready to get up. “And I think I’ll call it a night. Thank you for the drink.”

“Look.” She placed a hand on top of his. “I don’t know what you—“

“No, you don’t,” he cut her off. “So you better stop right there.” He felt the familiar choking feeling in his throat, and pressed his lips together tightly, wrestling it down.

“John, I know you were… close. But he was only a friend,” she said quietly, with a worried, somewhat frightened half-smile, like someone bringing up a painful truth that nobody wanted to talk about. And under different circumstances, John would have laughed. Trust his bloody sister to be the only person who got it right and didn’t assume they’d been a couple.

She tried to continue, and John knew what she’d say the minute she opened her mouth. “I mean, when Clara left…” she began, but he interrupted by getting up. John squared his jaw, raised his chin, and straightened himself as he had done countless times before.

“Goodnight Harry.” He nodded at her and then simply turned around and left.

All the way back to Baker Street, still fighting his body into submission, he couldn’t stop thinking that Harry had never been more wrong about anything in her life.

 

**December, Hotel Adlon, Berlin**

Sherlock was lying on the extravagant kingsize in his part of the room, letting his body dissolve into the fluffy mattress. He was only clad in a pair of silken pyjama pants and refused to wear anything else. After months of being bundled up to his ears in the bloody freezing cold of Eastern Europe, he made a firm vow to go naked for a week to make up for it – of course, Mycroft had taken issue with that. He was face-down in the pillows, breathing evened out, his eyes closed. It had been a long, long day. He heard Mycroft come in and ask for him. He kept perfectly still and relaxed, contentedly breathing in the fresh laundry scent. After a minute, Mycroft’s steps retreated and he heard the door to the bathroom close. He waited another few minutes until he heard the shower start.

He bounced backwards off the bed in one fluid motion. In a few long strides, he was in their suite’s sitting room. His bare feet made no sound on the plush carpets. The exquisite apartment was furnished with lavish mahogany furniture, art pieces and a marble fireplace on one side. Sherlock wasn’t sure if all the expense was for his benefit or for Mycroft’s or if his brother simply got these kinds of accommodations as a matter of course without really thinking about it. Sherlock had always been used to money, of course, but even he thought this was excessive. Perhaps being stuck in the middle of bloody nowhere for months rearranged your priorities. At this point, he would trade all the shiny mahogany in this suite for his chair back at Baker Street. _And John_.

He carefully stepped over towards the large dining table that Mycroft was using as an impromptu office for the night. There were no papers scattered on the polished dark wood surface. Mycroft was a much more orderly note keeper than he was. However, Sherlock’s eyes flashed with triumph as he spotted what he was looking for: Mycroft’s laptop.

Mycroft really should know better than to leave his laptop lying around like this; the password was a joke to crack. He really should know that Sherlock was way too nosy. Sherlock scoffed. Perhaps his brother was getting old. He quickly glanced through files and folders and emails until he found what he was looking for.

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in immaculate pyjamas and a dressing gown. He took one step and then halted when he locked eyes with Sherlock, sitting on the leather sofa in the sitting room. He still hadn’t been bothered to put on more clothes, but he sat as straight as if he was wearing a three-piece suit, his elbows resting on his legs, his hands steepled before his chin. He was regarding Mycroft coldly, his eyes narrowed.

The laptop rested on the sofa table before him. “Ah,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock let out a slow breath through his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “He was suffering,” he said, even quieter now than before. “You watched him. You took pictures of him. _Of_ _John Watson’s grief_.”

“You make me sound like a voyeur,” Mycroft bristled a little, one eyebrow raising a fraction.

“I certainly can’t see how this… this _collection_ could possibly benefit national security,” Sherlock snapped.

“Can’t you?” Mycroft retorted very quietly and Sherlock’s face scrunched in distaste as he realised he knew that look.

“Even you aren’t that cruel. Or perhaps I have underestimated you,” he bit out, his breathing becoming agitated.

Mycroft sighed. “Please don’t insult my intelligence. I figured you’d indulge your whim eventually, whether or not I had anything to say about it.”

“Why now? Why didn’t you just send me regular updates each week to torment me?”

Mycroft inclined his head. “You’ve just answered your own question. I am not that cruel.”

Sherlock remained quiet. He glared at the laptop.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice softened a bit. “You knew he was under surveillance. I told you as much. You knew what you would find. Why did you look?”

“I wanted to see how he was,” Sherlock said, truthfully.

“Why?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up. “Don’t you ever—“ he frowned and looked away. Exile had either made him go mad or soft, there was no other explanation. “You know.”

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“—worry about someone,” Sherlock finished, glancing to the side.

A bemused smile crossed Mycroft’s face as he stared a moment at Sherlock, but he remained quiet. After a few long minutes, he evidently decided that Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything else, wished him a good night and went to bed. Sherlock remained sitting on the sofa for a long while, staring at the laptop.

Everybody had seen John suffer, and of course that had been the whole point.

 

**November, five months after the Fall**

John stood at the checkout of Tesco’s, wrestling a few groceries into a paper bag. The young woman at the till was obviously new there and seemed a little flustered. John had gone through the checkout mostly looking at his feet, shuffling along and getting out his wallet automatically without thinking. She must have made some mistake and the anxious little noise that escaped her startled John out of his autopilot. She apologized profusely, sending worried glances to the people waiting behind him in line.

John had to clear his throat before he managed to say a word, and realised he hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days. He assured her that no harm was done and then caught himself doing something he hadn’t done in five months. He cracked a joke. He later couldn’t recall what it was exactly he’d said, but he remembered that the checkout lady had been rather pretty and that she had laughed at his joke as she wrestled with the till. He shared another chuckle with her before he paid, finished packing his groceries, and left.

Outside of the shop, a cold grip seized his spine and his heart began to race. His fingers clenched painfully around the handle of the shopping bag. He tried to take a deep breath, but could only gasp before his throat clenched shut again. He began walking, almost in a daze, gasping for air, feeling dizzy all the way back to Baker Street. With a still racing heart, he fumbled for the keys and jammed them into the lock, trembling hands pushing the door open. He managed to take a few steps after the door fell into its lock behind him, before his legs gave in. He dropped his bag on the floor and shakily lowered himself to the floor. With his back propped against the wall, he wrapped his arms around his legs, pulling them close. He tried to control his breathing, but his heart still raced and he just couldn’t get himself to breathe normally.

He recognized the panic attack, but also that he was completely unprepared and unable to take any steps that might have helped prevent it. He suddenly felt more isolated and more alone than he had in months. There was no one he could call, nobody to ask for help, and he was completely useless on his own. He’d fought back this feeling in his throat, in his bones, for months, and he couldn’t any longer. A wrecked sound escaped his mouth, and John shrank back even more into the wall when he didn’t recognize his own voice in it. He gave up trying to stop it, and another sob broke free. Finally, he felt the burning in his eyes slowly dissolve into tears, flowing freely across his cheeks. He gripped his legs tighter, buried his face between his arms, and cried.

It may have been hours later when Mrs Hudson finally found him when she came home. She took him upstairs, put away his groceries and made him some tea. It all passed in a bit of a blurry haze, and John was sure that he was meant to make polite conversation or at least thank her properly, but he was completely spent. She left at some point, and he just lay on the couch, his legs propped up and covered with a blanket, his tea on the couch table. He stared at the ceiling and thought of nothing.

When he awoke the next morning, his neck was stiff and he felt uncomfortable from sleeping in his clothes. He disentangled himself from the blanket and groggily padded over to the window. In the pale morning light, he glanced down at the street, waiting for his brain to wake up. He watched the first commuters fill the streets and listened to the silence of 221B Baker Street. After a few minutes, he realised that something was missing.

He looked around the flat and took a deep breath. The burning, choking sensation in his throat was gone. It felt as if someone had lifted a heavy load from him and replaced it instead with a softer, keener sense of loss. He looked at the empty chair. “You’re gone,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You’re dead and I… I never told you,” he brought out haltingly. “And now I never will.” The knowledge settled in his heart, and John understood that he was moving on and that this was what he would carry with him. Like a thread that had been woven into his bones and muscle, no longer suffocating him, but an aching reminder with every movement he made from this day onwards. When the tears began to spill again he didn’t stop them.

 

**December 2011, London**

It was their fifth date. John had taken Mary to various cinemas, restaurants and bars each week. Once, they’d even gone out twice in one week, which John thought meant good things. After the fourth date, he’d finally kissed her, and it had been nice. It was all very nice, distracting and pleasant. Mary was lovely, had a great sense of humour and was uncomplicated to go out with.

After the fourth date, after the kiss, she’d asked if he had recently lost someone.

As John had found not too long before that bottling up his feelings was a bit not good, he had tried to let go more, _embrace_ the grief, find _acceptance_ and all that bollocks his therapist would have told him to do. Unfortunately, that meant that Mary had reduced him to a sobbing mess in minutes after she’d asked her question. She pulled him into the next best bar, got a few strong drinks, and he told her everything. John realised that nobody he was close to – Mike, Greg or even Mrs Hudson – ever _needed_ to talk to him about it. They all _knew_ , so nobody really asked how he felt or what ‘really happened’.

Mary hadn’t known about the blog, the tabloids, the scandal—she’d read somewhere that the famous detective Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide, but that was it. John was astonished how, after _all that_ , someone could have just read the headline, gone on with their daily life and missed out on all of it; all of what turned his life upside down in a manner of days.

“So at least you’re not dating me for the inside scoop, then,” he said finally, finishing his whiskey. Mary chuckled, and that made John chuckle, too. He had thought she might never want to see him again, but she reacted really well. _Quite perfect, actually_ , John thought with a warm feeling. If he wasn’t such a mess and a bit too drunk, he’d probably have kissed her some more.

This ultimately led to date number five a week later, and made John more nervous than he’d been before. They went to dinner and then for a _stroll_. There was a certain air of expectancy. John knew that, from where they were, they would eventually end up at Baker Street if he so wished, and Mary seemed to be not uninterested. She could also call a cab, of course, and invite him over. Or he could simply say goodnight after she’d walked him home.

John felt as if he suddenly needed to make a decision then and there about where he wanted this relationship to go. He began fidgeting the longer they walked, and he berated himself for being such a coward. He was usually much more forward and had no trouble making his intentions clear. But right then, he wasn’t sure what his intentions even were. He wouldn’t mind spending more time with her, but somehow bringing her to Baker Street seemed inappropriate, as if he was going behind Sherlock’s back. He rarely had brought girlfriends there previously, as them meeting Sherlock usually put a bit of a strain on relationships. That thought brought John back to thinking about the previous Christmas and the words ‘Sherlock Holmes is a lucky man’. He suddenly felt a stab in his gut as he realised that any break-up was worth it if it meant Sherlock wouldn’t be dead.

“John,” Mary said, startling him out of his thoughts. She had stopped, looking at him with a funny expression. “Stop.”

“What?” He walked the few steps back to her. “What’s wrong?”

“You! You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?”

“What? I—sorry, I—must have—it’s been a long day,” he stammered, feeling even more of an idiot.

“No, shut up, it’s fine,” she waved him off brusquely. John’s eyebrows twitched in surprise. “I mean, seriously, what’s wrong? You’re… _tense_.” John had expected more anger, but Mary simply looked at him. Her nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Uh, I—am not sure,” he began. He cleared his throat.

“John. We can just. Uh.” She began to wave her hands around as if that explained everything. “Look. This is fine, okay? We don’t have to go anywhere. Why don’t you go home and I’ll go home and I’ll see you at work, okay?”

“O-kay,” John began slowly, looking at her a little suspiciously. _Am I really that obvious?_ “Why?”

“It’s fine,” Mary said, and leaned forward to kiss him goodbye.

One second later, John was infinitely glad that he was so distracted that he forgot to close his eyes. Because if he had, he wouldn’t have seen the glowing red dot appear on her forehead before it was too late.


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock to the rescue!

The long coat settled on Sherlock's shoulders with its reassuring weight, and for the first time, he felt like he was really back home. He rubbed a hand over his newly clean-shaven face, looking at the person in the mirror. He looked the same as he did six months before – perhaps a little thinner, perhaps still quite tired. But there was something in his eyes that he tried to ignore, some kind of evidence that the time away had not left him completely unchanged.

There was just one more thing. He turned to Mycroft. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are," he said.

"And remember: you promised," Sherlock admonished with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, don't fuss. I'll stay to explain the situation and confirm your story and then I'll leave you and Dr Watson to get... _re-acquainted_."

Sherlock sent him a dramatic eye-roll and made for the door. He stopped when there was a respectful knock and the door opened immediately. Anthea – or whatever her name was – came in, holding out a phone to Mycroft. "We have a situation," she said, and Sherlock tensed immediately.

Mycroft listened for a few seconds and then began striding out of the room. "We're on our way." He handed the phone back to his PA and made his way quickly through the many wood-panelled rooms in the Diogenes Club, and Sherlock could only follow.

"What is it, what's wrong?"

"It seems Miss Morstan's pursuers have caught up with her. We're tracking them." He pushed open the front door and did not stop until they reached the waiting black limo.

"Them? John is with her?"

"Get in," Mycroft snapped and Sherlock quickly obliged him. This was the quickest way, no time to indulge in brotherly rivalries.

The car sped off. Sherlock fixed Mycroft with a steely glare. "What do you know?"

_____________________________

John hadn't made a decision that fast since all that time ago when he shot that cabbie for Sherlock. He didn't even know he could move this quickly. In what seemed like slow motion, he wrapped his arms around Mary and lunged to the side, pulling their heads down. They collided heavily with a building wall, and Mary's protesting squeal was followed by the sharp sound of a bullet impacting into plaster.

Mary jumped and John saw her face go pale. Before they had time to think, he grabbed her arm and dragged her in to the nearest alley, hoping beyond hope that it wasn't a dead end. Unfortunately, they weren't in luck: the back of the alley was closed off with an imposing metal gate with no footholds that John could see. He quickly pressed himself and Mary against the wall where they were hidden behind two large rubbish bins.

"John," Mary urged, ripping her arm free of his iron grip.

John turned to face her. In the dim light from the street he could see a soft sheen of sweat on her face. Her eyes were wide and her jaw set. She grabbed both his arms and her gaze swivelled back towards the entrance of the alley every few seconds. "I'm so sorry," she said, and regret flitted across her face.

“What?" John looked at her sideways, but mostly he began looking for an escape route. "What are you talking about?” Someone from Moriarty’s network had it in for him. Revenge, perhaps. Kill off all that remained of Sherlock Holmes, his friend, his memory. He had to think fast, to get Mary out of there alive. He spotted a fire door a few steps back down towards the road. Exposed, but their only chance. In the street he heard running footsteps and made up his mind.

John rummaged through his clothes and found his small set of lockpicks at the very bottom of an inside pocket. A gift from Sherlock, after John had complained about their frequent breaking and entering; Sherlock had always had his own set, but then, he had told him with glee, he could now send John to break into somewhere else at the same time, and wasn’t that a win-win for both of them? John had grumbled that it was definitely a lose-lose for law and order and Sherlock had laughed.

John buried the memory quickly as his fingers brushed over the well-used tool. Mary grabbed his arm. “John, we need to get out of here. I can probably make a run for it down the street after I give you a boost over the gate. There’s a higher chance for us to make it if we split up.” She sounded composed and controlled – her voice seemed to have taken on a different quality. John looked at her with a frown. Her voice reminded him of the army, for some reason.

Thinking about that would have to wait. “Let’s give the fire door a try first, shall we?” Mary’s eyes widened a bit as he lifted his lockpicks, and he didn’t wait for her answer. He swiftly ducked across the alley. “Keep a lookout,” he whispered and went to work on the lock.

_____________________________

 

As soon as the car stopped, Sherlock was out of the door. He didn’t wait for Mycroft, knowing his brother would probably prefer to sort things from a distance. Sherlock dashed around the entry to the small, dark alley where John and Mary had last been seen according to the security footage. He briefly examined the bullet that had embedded itself into the wall. Sniper. He spotted a fading footprint on the damp pavement; not John’s, too large for Mary, so one of their pursuers must have followed them, and not too long ago. He dashed into the alley, following the signs. A fire door stood ajar.

Sherlock ran down the corridor behind the door. He grabbed a small torch from his pocket and switched it on. Several doors led off into different parts of the building; on the side of the street, the building contained a large shop, and from the smell Sherlock deduced it sold shoes. A few doors led from the linoleum floored hallway to storage rooms and a basement. Knowing John, he’d prefer exit routes and high ground over hiding out in dead-end rooms. Sherlock ran to the end of the corridor, through the door leading up a staircase. He noted several scuff marks and footprints on the way; two men had followed John and his date, both armed.

He dashed up the stairs. He was on the first floor when he heard the shot ring out above him.

_____________________________

John and Mary made it to the second floor before they were forced to make their stand. The only open door was to an empty storeroom, the rest seemed to be locked offices. Mary grabbed his arm. “There!” she hissed frantically, pointing to a fire escape at the end of the corridor. The steps below them came closer, were already on the first floor, and John knew they weren’t going to make it. “Go,” he urged her. “Run, I’ll hold them off.” He stepped aside, pressing himself against the wall to get the jump on whoever came up the stairs.

To his shock, Mary didn’t run. She squared her jaw and flattened herself against the wall on the other side of the stairs. John had no time to question her actions and held his breath when the steps came closer. Mary gave him the faintest of nods and a look that he interpreted as ‘go first’.

As soon as the head and torso of a man appeared next to him, John pounced on him. He grabbed the dark-clad figure by the shoulders, ripping him off balance. The man released a surprised cry when John slammed him into the opposite wall. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a second figure appear and Mary _expertly_ stepped up and stepped into his legs from behind, twisting _just the right way_ to crumble the man to the ground. John was momentarily so distracted by such a display of expertise that he didn’t see the punch in time.

A strong fist connected squarely with his jaw and it was his turn to slump against the wall, the air pushed from his lungs. The man leaned over to pick him up again, so John threw himself forward into the man’s legs and rugby-tackled him to the ground. They fell in a heap and John felt strong arms grappling with him. He realised immediately that the man was much taller and stronger than he was, probably ex-military, too, but less of the _doctor_ type, more of the _thug_ variety; John wouldn’t hold out against him for long.

Mary seemed to be locked in some kind of dodging dance with her opponent, evading and deflecting blows and attempted holds. Finally, the man pulled out a gun and he saw Mary lunge for the arm in a desperate bid to wrench it away from the man. They began grabbing and pushing now, too, the gracefulness of her previous movements replaced by a rough need to survive.

John felt his own arms slowly giving in, the other man was wearing him out. They rolled over a few times and John tried to lock him in place with his arms and a knee, but he couldn’t get the leverage. He took the last chance he had to get away and twisted around to escape the grapple, but he barely made it and stumbled against the wall again. A large hand grabbed his head and slammed him into the wall so heavily that his head rang. His vision went blurry and he staggered, completely disoriented. He couldn’t defend himself, he’d probably just acquired a rather nasty concussion and he didn’t know where up or down was, let alone the bloody fire escape. He muttered “Mary…!” and desperately tried to regain his balance, when the large hands grabbed his throat.

A shot rang out, but John didn’t quite process it. Two fingers pressed into his throat, at exactly the right spot. _Not just ex-army; trained killer - hired mercenary_? He couldn’t move. This was it. But John smiled inwardly. At least he’d picked up a few tricks from Sherlock Holmes – in his last moments, he even thought like him. And somehow, that was oddly comforting. He even believed he heard him call his name.

_____________________________

A dull thumping on the floor indicated heavy footsteps. A blurry, familiar voice filtered through the haze. _Drop him or you’re dead. You have one second._

The pressure on his throat was released. John fell backwards and down on his knees, but before his body hit the ground, he was caught by one arm around the shoulders. There was a sound like a punch. Everything was a haze, as if he was wrapped in cotton. His head felt like it was about to explode and the pain was obscuring his vision. His throat burned and his breath came in rags. He heard the voice again. Deep and familiar. A stab of pain went through his chest. Was he really so out of it that he hallucinated the voice? _I have them. We need an ambulance. They’re alive, but John is injured. I’ll get him downstairs._

John tried to open his eyes to assure himself that he wasn’t dead, but everything he saw was spinning and he lurched sideways, losing his balance. The arms around him held on tight. _Easy now, John. I’ve got you._ A pause. John felt a growing sense of panic build in his chest, and it wasn’t helping with the stampede in his head. The arms felt familiar. The scent was familiar. He couldn’t understand it at all.

_You must be Mary. Can you help me?_

He was cradled against a chest, another pair of arms positioned beneath his body to hold him up. The next few minutes he felt swaying, constant moving, downstairs, out of the building, with John barely holding on to consciousness. He let himself be enveloped by the smell, the warmth of two people carrying him to safety, knowing that it was bad, but that he’d live, he’d be fine, and then he would stop bloody hallucinating.

He heard an ambulance, and other voices, too. One sounded like the crisp, posh accent of Mycroft, but he couldn’t be sure. What would he be doing there? John felt himself lowered onto soft bedding. Someone began examining him. Something was odd and John couldn’t put his finger on it at first, but then he heard someone say, a bit urgently, _Sir, could you…_  and the familiar voice replied, hesitantly, _I - uh - I’m not sure I can move, sorry._ John heard the voice and the words and it was so crystal clear that it was _him_ that he could picture the exact sort of sheepish face Sherlock made when—

 _Sherlock_ —

—John’s fingers tightened with shock and he noticed that he was holding the sleeve of a coat in a death grip, a sleeve covering the arms that had carried him, and he knew that there was no way he could let go.

 _Sherlock_. He blinked his eyes again, the shock helping him concentrate despite the painful blur. He finally managed to focus his eyes, and the first thing he saw was impossible. The curls falling into his unmarred forehead, which he had last seen when it was covered in blood; the eyes, bright and alive, worried and relieved at the same time; the lips that were breathing, speaking softly.

“John.”

John’s head began to spin again. “Oh my God—“ he mumbled before he succumbed to unconsciousness once more.

_____________________________

Mycroft was very efficient, of course. He had a chat with Mary Morstan, assuring her that she was now under surveillance and that she would have to answer some questions for the benefit of the British Government. She seemed at first a bit taken aback, but generally handled the situation well. She had plausibly assured both Mycroft and Sherlock that she had shot her assailant in self-defence during their struggle. She affirmed she had never seen either of the mercenaries before in her life. The injured man was transferred to an ambulance whilst his companion was held by the police and that was that. Sherlock didn't pay too much attention to the conversations between her and Mycroft after that, but they seemed to be coming to certain agreements.

Sherlock was still by John's side. He had reluctantly shrugged out of his long coat when it became clear that John wasn't letting go of it any time soon, even whilst mostly unconscious. He insisted on riding with him in the ambulance, leaving Mycroft's team to clean up behind them.

He spent the night by John's bed, watching him sleep and fade in and out of consciousness occasionally. At some point, when his friend stirred restlessly, he rested his hand over John's; after he had calmed down, he simply left it there, hoping that perhaps the presence of someone else helped a bit. He studied him, the lines of exhaustion and general strain evident on his ashen face; Sherlock was reminded of the grainy black-and-white pictures from the surveillance cameras. John looked like he'd been through hell.

Early in the morning, Mary joined them. She eyed Sherlock carefully and went to John's side. Sherlock took a moment too long before he removed his hand and looked away. Perhaps it was not a good idea to hold her boyfriend's hand at a time like this. However, Mary only smiled at him and touched John's shoulder.

"How is he?" She asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath and got up. He wiped a hand down his face and stretched his stiff limbs. "He's been in and out of it throughout the night. But he seems all right. The last few hours he definitely went into REM sleep so he should be more rested when he wakes up."

"Good," she smiled. She held out her hand across John's body. "We haven't really had the time yet, so... Hi, I'm Mary."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked upwards. "Sherlock Holmes," he said and shook her hand. His eyes flitted over her face and posture, taking in all the little details. He catalogued her smile, her eyes, her hair, the quirk of her lips – and came to the startling conclusion that, all things considered, she seemed _all right_.

She looked around, grabbed a chair from the wall, dragged it over to Sherlock's side of the bed and sat down. Together, they watched John for a little while, and Sherlock got the strangest sense of calm from her. Her presence didn't bother him as John's previous girlfriends had. She didn't feel the need to fill the silence with empty chatter. She wasn't weeping or near fainting or putting on a bloody show just because people might expect a girlfriend to panic when their boyfriend had a concussion.

Knowing her background now, Sherlock wasn't surprised that the situation didn't faze her as it would have other people. She was worried about John, just as Sherlock was, but she wasn't _fussy_. Interesting.

Finally, Mary inclined her head to him and smiled. "Got it all, then?"

Sherlock was startled a little. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, I can tell. I've read all about you on John's blog. You just spent a considerable time sizing me up. I thought you were quicker," she flashed him an amused grin.

A small smile tugged on Sherlock's lips. "Just wanted to be thorough," he allowed.

"Understandable," she said with a nod. Sherlock waited for her to ask what he had deduced. Anyone else usually was either curious or already offended. After a few more minutes of silence, she said, "So, you're not dead, then."

Straight to the point. "No.” He waited a moment. “Did he—" Sherlock stopped. He didn't want to seem too curious, but it would be good to know whether she'd only read the papers or had the first-hand account, as it were.

Mary smiled again, that strange knowing look that made Sherlock a bit wary. "Yes. I asked. I could tell he was grieving. I think—" she sighed and looked at John, a sad expression crossing her eyes. "I think I was the first person to ask him about it."

As Mary's eyes flickered to meet his, Sherlock wondered what John had told her. John wasn't someone to open up easily; even though Sherlock could always read him like a book, he had never exactly _told_ him a lot.

Finally, Mary said, with a certain conviction, "I'm glad you're not dead."

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

She gave a small chuckle, as if the answer was obvious. “Because you're his best friend and he missed you a lot. I bet you're going to catch lots of criminals together again and that's good, right?"

Sherlock gave that some thought. He guessed she had a point. _Things that are good: catching criminals together with John. Running through the streets, chasing leads. Making John laugh by annoying Scotland Yard. Telling John the deductions and seeing him be amazed._

In all the excitement he had completely forgotten to think about the simplest fact: he was getting his life back. He had been dead for six months and evidently still counted as John’s _best friend_. Yes, it was definitely good not to be dead.

_____________________________

At some point during the next two hours, they received a visit from Mycroft. The man Mary had shot was recovering and under guard. Mary said she had no idea why he’d want to attack her. They established that the attackers had definitely been tailing her, not John, so at least that meant it had probably nothing to do with Moriarty’s remaining loyalists out for revenge.

Mary handled the conversation, in fact, the entire situation, with a composure and realistic outlook that Sherlock approved of. She was not bothered by the fact that Mycroft had found out most of what there was to know about her, and that she’d been under surveillance. Mary gave the impression that she had cottoned on to the fact rather quickly that it was all for _John_ ’s sake; and by extension, all for Sherlock’s. She seemed to accept that and move on.

Sherlock could tell that Mycroft was also pleasantly surprised at her. Sherlock shared a look with his brother at some point, who slightly raised an eyebrow at what they were both thinking: Mary was definitely something. Somehow, Sherlock had expected her to be simply a danger that had to be removed from John. He’d not expected her to be someone who stuck around. He felt an odd pang of _something_ at the thought. There was something there that he couldn’t yet put his finger on.

A while after Mycroft left, Sherlock stepped out of the room to get some coffee. When he returned, he heard Lestrade talking to Mary. He smirked to himself and listened for a minute as the DI made polite enquiries about John.

After they had exchanged all possible pleasantries, Lestrade began to conclude the conversation and got up to leave. “Well, it was certainly lucky John had someone watching over him last night,” he joked.

“John _always_ has someone watching over him,” Sherlock drawled, leaning casually against the doorframe. He watched with satisfaction as Lestrade’s jaw fell open. He began to say more, but was cut off immediately by what could only be described as a bear hug. Greg wrapped his strong arms around him and squeezed and Sherlock froze at the contact; but then a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. He finally lifted one arm and patted his friend on the back. When he finally let go, Sherlock quipped under his breath, “for a minute there I thought I’d have to charge you with assault.”

Lestrade laughed. A big, warm belly laugh. “You bastard,” he said under his grin. “You utter bastard.”

“Good to see you, too.” Sherlock grinned a little.

“Oh, Anderson is going to have a field day with this one. You’re his pet project, can you believe it? ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ and all that,” Greg shook his head, still looking bemused and utterly relieved. “How? No scratch that, I’ve heard enough theories. Why?“ Greg said, waving his arms at Sherlock, who stood there, calmly sipping the terrible hospital coffee, considering how he would seek out Anderson to find out how he could humiliate him a little bit.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell—“ Lestrade began again, and his gaze unerringly swept to John. He broke off mid-sentence, his face sobering a little. A ghost of some unspoken pain crossed his eyes and Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat. He saw Mary glancing between them with interest. He tried not to let his voice sound too strained when he answered. “Well, I have a lot of explaining to do, Inspector. But all in good time,” he added, nodding slightly towards John.

“Of course,” Greg said. “But I’ll hold you to that, you realise? You owe me that.” He gave Sherlock a serious glare, but smiled as he said his goodbyes.

Sherlock stood by the window for a while after that, staring out at the people on the streets, finishing his coffee. Mary just remained sitting, watching him and John, and Sherlock was startled to realise _he didn’t mind_. And suddenly, that wasn’t just a random comfort anymore, it became an interesting fact. “This is something you perfected, isn’t it. For your job,” Sherlock said to the window. He didn’t specify _which_ job.

Mary waited for a moment. “You mean… being somewhere but being invisible?”

“If that’s how you think of it. Most people fill an entire room with all the chattering going on inside their skulls; and there’s the twitching, the scratching, the little noises people make because they think they have to make them to remind themselves that they’re _still there_. It’s like a constant feedback loop of their own existence and it grates on my nerves. It’s even worse after being on my own for six months.” He took a breath and realised he hadn’t spoken this much to anyone except perhaps Mycroft since his jump.

“But not me?”

“No. Not you. But there’s something calculated about it that makes me… uneasy,” he allowed, reluctantly.

Mary chuckled. “Wow he really was right about you,” she said, but didn’t elaborate. And suddenly, Sherlock really wanted to know what John had said about him. “Yes. During my training, I and the others learned to be quiet… in a way that probably unsettles normal people.”

The way she said it. _Normal people_. She was fully back in her old persona now. She got up and joined him by the big window, looking out. Both of them so _not normal_ together, looking out at all the _normal_ outside. “I had to learn that again, when I began my new life here. I had to study the other girls at work and remember to push my hair behind my ears and to giggle and straighten my blouse and things like that.” She smiled at Sherlock. “And you know what gets me? I like it. It’s not as boring as I thought it might be. Here I am, having a wonderful time being Mary Morstan – who would have thought?” She looked self-possessed and calm, but Sherlock detected a hint of sadness in her voice. All this was changing for her right now.

Sherlock gave lop-sided smile. “Trying to blend in with the goldfish,” he muttered. Mary quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, just something my brother once said.”

They heard a sound from the bed and both immediately turned around. John was stirring. Sherlock took a breath and looked at Mary. “Perhaps you had better—“ he said, indicating John. It would be good if he saw a familiar face first, one that didn’t shock him. Did he remember? She narrowed her eyes a little, searching his face, but then smiled and nodded.

_____________________________

Mary steadied herself as she turned towards the bed. She remembered to let her shoulders slump a bit; she had been standing straight when talking to Sherlock, remembering her old self, how she used to be on assignment, alert and watchful. Now she had to go back to being _Mary_ , to being a bit softer around the edges, a little more gentle. Sherlock retreated to a far corner of the room, giving her space. She knew he didn’t want to shock John – not exactly advisable with a concussion – but he also looked a bit scared to face his friend. It was fascinating to see this man whom she had only read of as this hero, this larger than life persona, admitting to being ‘uneasy’ and retreating when faced with a difficult situation.

“John?” She approached the bed and laid a hand on his arm. He was blinking and licking his dry lips. “Mary?” he asked, still disoriented. Mary reached out and helped him sit, then handed him a glass of water. “Here you go, this should help.”

“Oh. Thanks,” he added and eagerly gulped down some water. He blinked again, trying to focus on her face. The blanket fell to his hips and she saw that he was, of course, still in his clothes from the night before, looking a bit of a mess.

“How are you feeling?” She gave his shoulder a squeeze.

His blinked again and then his eyes suddenly widened and he became white as a sheet. Ah. He remembered. For a moment, Mary thought she might have to explain that it hadn’t been a dream, but thankfully, John was not the kind of person to doubt his own senses, concussion or not. However, he did look like he was about to throw up. “ _Oh my G_ —Mary. Where—where is he.” His eyes darted around, but Sherlock must have moved to the small corner by the bathroom, blocked from view.

Mary kept her eyes on John, stroking his shoulder in calming circles. “John, please try to relax and stay calm. You have a concussion, you know you need to process this one step at a time. Okay? Please tell me you understand what I’m saying.”

John’s breathing was accelerated a little, but he focussed on her eyes and managed to get it under control. His jaw set and he raised his chin a little. Steeling himself, battening down the hatches, _soldier stance_ , Mary thought. “I understand,” he said. His voice was still rough from sleep, but it hitched a little in his throat, higher than usual. “But—I need to see him.”

It was the plea in his voice that made Sherlock move. Mary couldn’t fault him for that; John never begged, but if he needed something, it was hard to refuse him. She took a respectful step backwards and made some way for the other man to take her place by the bed. And then she became invisible once again and just watched.

“John.” Sherlock stood over him, his face softening and changing. He was looking younger and more vulnerable than Mary had seen him so far.

John swallowed heavily and raised his eyes. The calm veneer was already breaking. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat down on the side of the bed, facing John. Something made Mary’s heart beat faster at the sight. She saw John blink away unshed tears as his hand was raised, coming to rest heavily on Sherlock’s shoulder; and they just looked at each other. And then John’s face slowly changed, his features hardened, his eyes boring like fire into Sherlock. Mary saw his jaw tense and heard him inhale a sharp breath.

“How… could you.” John was shaking now. Sherlock seemed to be holding his breath, his eyes darting between John’s. He gently placed a hand on John’s shoulder, and he tensed even more at the contact.

“John.”

“Six months, Sherlock!” John’s voice was harsh. Mary felt a shiver go down her spine. This was a side of John she had not seen before. And as she took in his burning eyes, his heaving breath and the sudden scorching anger that seemed to be contained in him, she realised that this was more _him_ than anything else. This man, for all intents and purposes, had been dead for six months and was now coming back with a vengeance.

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed, unable to form words.

“I— buried you. I mourned you! And you _let me_ —“ John broke off and swallowed, his breathing becoming erratic. He twitched his head once, closing his eyes as if he was in pain. His fist curled tightly into Sherlock’s shirt, almost tearing it apart.

Mary wanted to interfere, to stop him; but she also felt that this was something they had to figure out themselves, otherwise they might never figure it out if somebody kept interfering.

She sighed inwardly, feeling a pang of sadness. She had a few suspicions, and she would find out soon enough if they were true. She knew what she had to do. But there would be time for that later. Right now, she decided to give them a little privacy and quietly left the room.

 


	3. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much-needed talk.

John couldn’t think. He could only feel. His breathing was ragged, his vision still blurry – whether from the concussion or the anger, he didn’t know. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying to calm down. This was neither healthy nor helpful in any way. But damn, he was _angry_.

His fingertips felt the fabric of the shirt and the shoulder muscles underneath it. He released his tight grip a little and let them wander further towards the collar until they encountered skin, pressing slightly against the pulsing life of the artery, taking in the wholeness and unbrokenness. His eyes roamed Sherlock’s forehead, his neck, his arms, his entire body and he frowned—

“You don’t have any—“ ah, of course. Realisation settled into his heart, tinging it with pain once more. “No scars. Because you _didn’t actually_. It was all—“ he broke off, taking a deep breath and scanned Sherlock’s eyes. “Why would—why did you—“ he couldn’t finish. His throat still felt raw from the attack, and his head ached. He supposed that mental strain wasn’t exactly recommended with a concussion, but it couldn’t be helped. He was a mess, trying to understand, trying to sort it all out. Too many questions raced through his mind, blending with all the theories he’d formed over the past few months, tinted with a desperate desire to fucking strangle Sherlock for putting him through it all—

And then he saw the pain in these eyes, and that, more than anything, calmed him. Sherlock always made jokes of even the most serious situation, but he wasn’t joking now. He looked seriously guilt-ridden and sad and somehow happy at the same time. Sherlock’s hand, which he had felt hovering next to his head, finally rested on John’s cheek. His eyes fluttered closed. The touch was so light and cool that it was almost not there at all, and it slowed his ragged breathing and his racing thoughts a little. God, this man was going to be the death of him.

“John,” Sherlock finally began, and his voice was so perfect and real that it felt as if it was the first thing John really heard in months. “Please look at me,” he continued quietly. John opened his eyes and found Sherlock looking at him intently. “I am so sorry,” he said with feeling.

John simply stared at him.

“I will tell you everything, but for now, I am sorry for what you had to go through because of me. I am so sorry. But I will explain, I promise.”

John stared some more. In his wildest dreams he could not have come up with this scenario. Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead – in his mind, it would have simply been back to business, getting his every-day life back. But Sherlock here, by his side, _apologizing_ , looking more in agony than John had ever seen him, looking, in fact, exactly as miserable as John felt all the time now, making _promises_ , holding his face—it was too much.

He wanted to say something, anything, ask all of his questions, but he only managed the first thing that was on his mind right now. “You’re back for good?” He swallowed heavily as he heard the vulnerability in his own voice. He abruptly dropped his hand back in his lap. He felt embarrassed for his openness – surely, Sherlock would just walk all over that sentimental crap and—

But he didn’t. At the sound of John’s voice, Sherlock’s eyes widened a little, and he looked even more anguished than before. A sad, lonely, angry part inside John felt a stab of vindictive pleasure at this, and he hated it. “Yes, I am,” Sherlock promised.

“You’re not just—“ John felt his heart begin to beat faster as he had to say these things. “You know. You’re—you haven’t moved on and just dropped in to say you were alive before you’re off again?”

Sherlock looked appalled. “No. Of course not. I would like to come home,” he said. “If that’s all right,” he added a bit quieter.

John sighed and shook his head. “Of course it’s all right, you idiot,” he said. This was such a mess. He felt pity, but he was also still angry; relieved and happy but also reluctant to open up and examine the feelings that had accumulated over the past months. Sherlock gave him a small smile and John closed his eyes again quickly. Sherlock had changed. He suddenly smiled at him _just like that_ ; as if he had never done anything else but smile at John. The mad thought rushed through him that he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to murder or kiss him, and he definitely couldn’t deal with this sort of thinking right now.

Yes, it was definitely too much. He was in shock, and had a concussion and wouldn’t be making any informed decisions any time soon. He pursed his lips briefly, steeled his thoughts, raised his chin and squared his shoulders. He felt Sherlock retreat a little, and when he opened his eyes, he seemed to have collected himself a bit more as well.

John sat up and pushed the blanket away resolutely. He looked around and noted the private room. “Bit posh for just a concussion, isn’t it?”

“Mycroft’s way of saying ‘sorry’, I think,” Sherlock said, clearly accepting the change of topic with some relief.

“What’s he got to say sorry for—“ John began, then thought for a moment. Then he sighed. “Oh. He organised the whole thing, didn’t he? Of course he did.”

“He helped,” Sherlock merely said, and John thought he looked a bit miffed that his own substantial intellect, which no doubt had contributed a lot to whatever crazy plan they had pulled, was so belittled. John dangled his legs over the side of the bed and tried to determine whether he was still feeling dizzy.

“Where’s Mary?”

“She, uh—went outside for a moment. I think.” Sherlock scrunched up his nose a little as if he couldn’t possibly fathom Mary’s motives behind this. John was pretty sure that was because Sherlock had never heard of ‘tact’.

“Right.” It seemed safe to get out of bed. His head felt much clearer, in mere physical respects anyway. Perhaps it was really a good idea to leave all the questions be for the moment. It felt safer.

“I think I’m ready to go home now,” John said.

_____________________________

In the early afternoon, they were back at Baker Street, after John had been discharged from hospital. He hadn’t been surprised to find a black car waiting for all of them as soon as they left the building. He was a bit surprised, though, to find a folder in the car, addressed to Mary, of all people. She didn’t say anything, but held on to the folder the entire ride. John felt that there was another load of unanswered questions there, but they could wait, too.

_____________________________

Mary handed John a cup of tea, then sat down next to him on the sofa. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” she asked for the third time.

“Thank you, but it’s fine. Really.” John nodded for emphasis, then took a sip of his tea. He took a deep breath and leaned back. He was home, safe and sound, but that wasn’t what made his whole body vibrate with something happy and dangerous and warm. It felt as if he’d suddenly come back to life, after being on stand-by for months. His body and his head couldn’t really quite handle it, he knew that much. His medical mind assessed the strange mess he was right now, and he knew he’d crash at some point and probably cry or rage or become silent again simply to understand everything.

Sherlock, _alive_.

Sherlock, currently puttering around in his bedroom, sorting through boxes of his belongings left there by John. Boxes that had waited for him to come back.

But for now, John felt content to just sit there, drink his tea and rest his head for as long as he could before the questions came forth again.

Mary smiled and kissed him on the forehead once. Then she called a quick ‘good bye’ into the bedroom and left Baker Street, Mycroft’s folder clutched under her arm.

John got up and moved to his armchair, drank his tea, and simply listened to the sounds that suddenly filled the flat again. There was the occasional swearing, a bit of stomping around, some shoving of boxes and sometimes a bit of a crash.

_____________________________

A few hours later, John blinked, raising his head from the back of the armchair. He must have dropped off to sleep at some point. The flat was darker and a steady rain was pattering against the windowpanes. A fire was crackling in the hearth, casting glowing light and flickering shadows over everything.

John’s eyes focussed on the figure of Sherlock Holmes sitting in the chair opposite him. He was wearing a dark, elegant shirt and no jacket. He had his sleeves rolled up a bit, and John saw a smudge of soot on one of his hands. His eyes travelled up, taking in the subtle differences. His hair looked a bit different, _had been cut recently_. He indeed bore no scars, but there were dark shadows under his eyes and his cheeks looked more gaunt than before. _Hasn’t slept well in some time._ A small cut on the side of his cheek. _Cut himself shaving… perhaps two days ago_. That had never happened in the time John knew him. _Shaking hands?_ _Indicative of drug use?_ No, he lacked the other tell-tale signs of that.

John blinked a little again, his headache returning slowly. His brain’s need to figure Sherlock out was definitely fighting his heart, which simply wanted to jump over there and hug the man. Sherlock gave John a small smile. “You’re deducing. And it’s giving you a headache,” he said, eyeing John fondly.

John took a breath and swallowed. Sherlock never looked at him like that. Or perhaps he did, but John had only ever seen it out of the corner of his eyes. He frowned and Sherlock quickly looked away. Another one of those things to figure out later, definitely. He cleared his throat. “Well, um. Yes, it’s become a bit of a habit,” John said, a bit unsteadily. “Trying to think like you,” he admitted, and suddenly it sounded incredibly cheesy and embarrassing to say that out loud.

Sherlock looked, for lack of a better word, _touched_. 

“Well,” he said, and cleared his throat as well. “Good. That’s good.”

The rain continued to drum against the windows. The fire popped. Sherlock thought for a moment, then cleared his throat again. “Um. Are you hungry? I was going to order some take out.”

John smiled in surprise. “ _You..._ were going to order take out?”

Sherlock looked a bit sheepish. “Well. You’ve been injured, you need to eat,” he said. “And I do happen to eat on occasion.” A small smile tugged at his lips.

“Why then, by all means, order take out,” John said.

“Right. Chinese?” John nodded. “Right,” Sherlock said again and dug his phone out of his pocket.

_____________________________

 

John was slowly digging through his Chow Mein and Sherlock was making an effort to poke at his Kung Pao, and John never asked a single question or said anything; and yet Sherlock simply began to speak, without looking up, and told him the whole story.

How meeting ‘Richard Brook’ convinced him that he had to complete the story. That Moriarty was just mad enough that it could work if Sherlock pretended to play along. Moriarty killing himself, the snipers, everything – how Sherlock thought he had him, but he had to complete the plan to protect John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

At first, Sherlock had thought that they only needed to fool everyone for a week or so. He’d been preparing to come back, itching to tell John everything, to apologize for his abominable behaviour towards him. But then Mycroft had cautioned him: _wait, let them see John grieve, because it will be more convincing than any press statement I make. Give us some time._ So Sherlock had waited, and fussed and fidgeted and then the mission had come.

 _Moriarty is too well connected. We need to dig up his contacts, his operatives in Eastern Europe. I can send in teams, but this is detective work. We have a unique opportunity here,_ Mycroft had said. _They won’t expect you._ They’d discussed it, argued, fought for hours. By the end, Sherlock had to agree; it was too good an opportunity to let go.

At this point, Sherlock sighed heavily and dragged his eyes up to meet John’s. He looked pained and weary.

John hated it. He hated that Mycroft was right, that if John himself had been involved, he would probably have advised them to do the same thing. _But—_ he wanted to scream at the brothers, _but not to me! Can’t you see what it will do to John Watson if he thinks Sherlock Holmes is dead? Do it, because it is necessary, but find some way to let John know!_

Sherlock swallowed heavily. “John. If there was any other way—“

John, on some subconscious level, felt that same jolt of satisfaction again to know that at least Sherlock seemed completely aware how his absence had wrecked his friend. He would endure the embarrassment of that if it meant that Sherlock felt at least some of the pain he had caused.

“I understand,” he said slowly. “I do. Mycroft was right. I hate it, and I wish he wasn’t, but that doesn’t change the facts. Nobody was… as close to you as I was.” John tried not to put too much emphasis on the past tense. But he felt that right now, they weren’t exactly ‘close’ anymore. “If anyone looked… they would have seen what—well, what they saw.” He looked at the dying embers of their fire for a moment. “Did it work, at least?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock waited a moment before he spoke. “Yes,” he said. “You were under close surveillance for at least a month.” _Some of it was Mycroft’s_ , John thought. “We knew that there was someone behind the scenes who doubted my death and wanted revenge for Moriarty’s death,” Sherlock continued. “People were commissioned to spy on you, to see if you met me somewhere in secret; especially when you continued with the cases. We were able to track the commissions to the source.” He smiled slowly at John from under his eyelashes for a moment. “So you were helping me, even if you didn’t know it at the time,” he said and his voice seemed lower suddenly. He sounded… proud. John forced himself to focus on the remains of his dinner.

“I got them all, in the end. I made the connections I was there to make and when I was done, Mycroft fetched me home and sent in his nitwits to clean up the rest. And that’s all.” Sherlock poked at his own food, which was probably cold by now.

John searched his face for a moment. He nodded. This was the story for him. There were probably a lot more details, but they weren’t necessary for the job at hand. And there had been a distinct lack of bragging involved. It was meant to convey the facts as neutrally as possible. Let John judge it without being influenced.

He didn’t say anything for a long time after Sherlock had finished. Eventually, he got up and dumped his almost empty box and Sherlock’s full take out container in the bins. He mechanically prepared some more tea. He had to remember to get two cups out of the cupboard again. With a stab of pain he realised that that meant he had begun to move on. _Well, I’ll just have to move back_ , he thought as the kettle boiled. He gave Sherlock his tea and sat down again. Sherlock put some more wood on the embers and stoked the fire back to life.

As John stared at the flames, he remembered something from before the Fall.

_You’re worried they’re right about me. You’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well._

_No, I know you’re for real._ _Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time._

He let out a low huff. And then took a deep breath. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and knew he had his full attention. His head swam a little as he focussed on the dancing fire. His head ached a little, but everything was somewhat dulled by painkillers. John felt sleepy from the food and the warmth.

Finally, he began to talk. He told Sherlock haltingly what he did after the Fall. All the little things that led to the quiet funeral. How he had tried to talk to Mycroft afterwards; but he had just left, making John furious with him. He told him in few words about some of the cases he had worked on, and even though they were boring and obvious, Sherlock seemed pleased to hear about them. He didn’t mention how he got himself hurt or why he stopped with the cases, but told him the truth that the detective work just wasn’t the same without him.

He told Sherlock how he worked with Lestrade to clear his name. And when he looked up and saw the expression on Sherlock’s face, he felt tears threatening to fall; because he knew he’d never been so driven to do something for someone else and Sherlock _knew that too, of course,_ and nobody had ever looked at him like that. And then he couldn’t stop himself, he simply had to say it all, embarrassment or not.

“There is one thing, Sherlock, one—“, John steadied himself once again before he could continue. “You thought I was worried that I had been taken in by you. But the only thing that worried me was that you _really thought that_. That you, of all people, couldn’t see what was right in front of your eyes for once. I was… concerned about what people thought of you not because I doubted you but because you’re important to me and I felt… protective. How did you not see that?”

John sighed and shook his head. “Sherlock… how could you ever think that I’d believe what you said on that roof? That I would believe… for _one. second._ that Richard Brooke was _real_? Moriarty _kidnapped_ me.” John leaned forward in his chair. “He _taunted_ me. He was mad! Sherlock, I had his breath on my face as he strapped those explosives to my chest—how could you ever think that I wouldn’t be able to tell the truth from the lies?”

He ran a hand through his hair. How could he explain this so Sherlock would understand?

He took a deep breath to calm down. “I _knew_ you weren’t serious. I _knew_ you weren’t suicidal and I _knew_ that you were real and—God, for the past few months I’ve not thought about anything as much as this.” He fixed Sherlock with a glare, willing him to understand. “I knew you would never kill yourself over something so stupid like your reputation – so why the hell would you jump? You are so clever, so—Sherlock, how could you not know that I _knew_? How did you not anticipate that I would _know_ these things this whole time after your ‘death’, trying to figure it all out? I couldn’t find an explanation.”

John thought of something. “It didn’t make any sense. You couldn’t be dead, because there was no logical reason for you to be dead. Isn’t that what you always say? Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And that was the solution all along. You couldn’t be dead, so the truth was you _weren’t_. I was just too… I just didn’t _realise_. I didn’t think of that one possibility. Because… how could you not tell me, of all people? Because if you didn’t tell me, then I was wrong about the most important thing. About how you… about what I meant to you. And I couldn’t allow myself to be wrong about that. Anything but that. So you had to be dead.”

John took a shaky breath and reached for his tea; and hesitated when he saw Sherlock’s face. He looked heartbroken. Another thing John had thought to be impossible.

“You weren’t wrong,” he finally said, in a small voice.

And finally, John thought he was beginning to understand the strange changes that he had seen since the hospital.

He released his anger with a long breath. And then he smiled at Sherlock Holmes. “I know.”

 

_____________________________

 

John felt a lot better the next day. His dizziness had dissipated completely and apart from a bit of tenderness where his head had collided with the wall and a mild headache, he felt fine. He lay in bed, his mind slowly rummaging through the conversation of the night before. He had said a few things that perhaps ought to have remained unsaid, but he had been tired and on painkillers and pretty damn emotional so it seemed good to say them at the time. Sherlock had certainly shown more openness than ever before and that was weird enough; so John guessed he was entitled to his own confessions.

But that had been enough for now. He needed to get some semblance of his life back before any more heartfelt conversations happened. John went downstairs, showered and got dressed and made himself some breakfast. He heard Sherlock still puttering around in his bedroom and didn’t disturb him. A little bit later, Sherlock finally made an appearance, still dressed in pyjamas. His hair was messy and his shirt and dressing gown sat slightly askew on his shoulders. “Good. You’re up,” he said briskly. “And you’re feeling better.” It wasn’t a question. As Sherlock flopped in his chair, John thought that this version of him was the one John would have shown to the press to exonerate him if he could have had his pick. Surely, this man was so utterly impossible that he simply _had to be real_.

“I am,” John said, regardless, and flipped a page in the morning paper.

“Are you _sure_ you haven’t removed any of my things,” Sherlock pouted.

“For the sixth time since you returned from the dead, I am sure,” John responded, glancing up over the paper. A small smile tugged at his lips. He had missed Sherlock’s sulking. _God_ , he scolded himself, has he realised he was going to be insufferable for the next few days or weeks, rediscovering all the annoying traits of his flatmate and swooning over how much he had missed every single one. He scoffed and tried to focus on his paper.

However, it wasn’t to be.

“So.” Sherlock smoothly crossed his legs and picked up his violin from next to his chair. He toyed around with it for a bit, pulling strings and testing its feel in his hand, under his chin. John wondered if he had missed the instrument as well. He was almost holding his breath, knowing that something was definitely on Sherlock’s mind. He raised his eyebrows in expectation.

“So. Mary,” Sherlock said.

John lowered the paper slowly and waited.

“You’re seeing Mary. Mary is your girlfriend.”

“Uh. I suppose,” John said giving Sherlock a slightly incredulous look. “We’re talking about Mary now?” _Ugh, what kind of an answer is that? ‘I suppose’… Yes, she’s my girlfriend. Isn’t she?_

Sherlock fixed him with a glare that didn’t bode well. It was his I’m-going-to-find-out-everything glare, the one that made John feel like a deer in the headlights, knowing any kind of concealment whatsoever was moot.

Sherlock lowered his gaze a little, having learnt what he could from John’s expression. “I don’t see why not. I want to know how you’ve been, and she’s obviously a part of that, so I want to know about Mary.”

He sounded genuine, but John knew him better. There was definitely something he wasn’t aware of, and Sherlock made absolutely sure John knew that. “So… what do you know about her?” he asked with a completely innocent expression that would have fooled anyone but John.

He narrowed his eyes, carefully folded the newspaper and put it aside. He regarded Sherlock for a moment. Then he made up his mind. “You know what? I am not playing. If you know something about her that I need to know, tell me. If it’s something I don’t need to know, then shut up; she’ll tell me if she wants to. She has a right to her privacy.”

Sherlock seemed surprised. He acknowledged this with a nod. “Very well.”

John raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“I said, ‘very well’. Did the concussion affect your hearing?”

“You’re letting this go?”

Sherlock looked at him as if he was a complete imbecile. “You asked me to, so… yes.”

“But—“ John tried to think of something to say. “You never do what I ask!”

Sherlock raised a delicate eyebrow and placed his violin under his chin. “Evidently not true,” he said with a certain air of smugness, and began to play the violin.

John stared at him for a bit longer, trying to figure out what his bloody game was now. Sherlock was riling him up and he _knew_ he was doing it, but why? Something was definitely off since he’d come back, and John couldn’t see what it was.

He went back to his newspaper for a while, but found he couldn’t concentrate. Or rather, he found he preferred to concentrate more on Sherlock’s playing than anything else. The music, something soft and sad, seemed like a soundtrack to his jumbled thoughts. It spoke of loss and miracles and it felt like John had lost Sherlock only to find him again transformed into something new; he mourned his friend from before, not sure how to deal with this stranger who sat in his place.

John found after a while that the playing had stopped. He opened his eyes – when had he closed them? – and watched Sherlock standing by the window, staring out into the street, watching the rain. John felt a pang of emotion, something tugging and painfully digging into his heartstrings, something that made him want to go over there and wrap his arms around him to make sure he knew John was still there.

He sighed. _Ridiculous_. Absolutely ridiculous.

Sherlock turned around. “Mary is here,” he announced, and immediately sat down in his chair, as if he was awaiting a client.

 

_____________________________

 

True enough, moments later they heard a door open and the sound of voices drifting up. Mrs Hudson had met Mary briefly amid the shock of the previous day, when a supposedly dead Sherlock walked in with an injured John. She had bustled and cried and made them all comfortable and then happily cried some more, but she had probably mostly ignored John’s _girlfriend_ , or she surely would have given him a pointed look.

Mary came up the stairs and knocked politely on the open sitting room door. “Hello boys,” she greeted cheerfully and came over to John. She sat on the armrest of his chair and leaned down for a quick peck on his head. John smiled at her. He liked the atmosphere of brisk optimism she brought to a room – it was also a reason she made a good nurse, he thought. He felt Sherlock’s brooding eyes on him and wondered how he had ended up with two so different people in his life; then he quickly realised that he, once again, made the mistake of thinking of Sherlock basically as a partner. Something about that thought worried him and he tried to brush it away, placing an arm around Mary’s waist.

She inquired after his head and they had a brief, somewhat professional chat about the state of the concussion; she also checked the marks of choking on his neck and announced that they were healing all right. Sherlock suddenly got up and offered to make them tea.

John gave a surprised chuckle and shook his head. “Okay, seriously, whoever you are, what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” he asked. “Because whoever came back from the dead yesterday,” he turned to explain to Mary, “it’s not him.” He had tried to speak lightly, but felt something heavy in his heart – yes, it was definitely still a bit too soon to be making jokes about it.

Sherlock stood and looked at him with an unreadable expression. “Isn’t that usually the case?” he asked.

John couldn’t look away. “What is?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s said dying changes people,” he said casually, but John felt a shiver down his spine. Sherlock went to the kitchen to make the tea.

Mary looked between them, a small smile on her face. “Don’t bother with the tea,” she called to the kitchen. “I’m due at the clinic.” She turned to John, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I just dropped in to see how you were. I’m guessing tomorrow is off, though?”

“Tomorrow?” John scrunched up his face.

Mary laughed. “Blame the concussion. Art gallery, remember?”

“Oh, right!” Yes, John had promised to take her to the new Monet exhibition. At the time, he had thought how that presented them with another opportunity to go out twice in one week and to get to know her better. He thought about Sherlock and how simply thinking about him made his head ache with all the confusion.

“Uh, we can still go, if you like,” he offered.

“You sure? Isn’t it a bit too much too soon?” She looked worried.

“No, no,” he waved her off. “It’ll do me good to walk around a bit, and it’s not exactly noisy or strenuous, so I think I can manage.” He gave her a brave smile. Anything to get out of the house a bit, to stop him and Sherlock simply staring at each other, not knowing what to do with themselves.

“Well, sure, if that’s what you like? It’s on the way from here, so I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow?”

“Sounds great,” John smiled. “Looking forward to it.”

He walked her to the door and gave her a quick kiss goodbye. He watched her going down the stairs and out of the door, thinking about the fact that they hadn’t really progressed anywhere beyond kissing, and even that didn’t feel as intimate or romantic now as it had when it first happened. They weren’t even touching all that much. Perhaps she felt inhibited by Sherlock being there. Or perhaps John did?

When he sat back down, still in thought, he noticed a fresh cup of tea by his armchair. Sherlock was sitting at the desk, using John’s laptop, ignoring John completely. _Well, at least some things have returned to normal_ , he mused, and settled down with his paper again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sneaks back to the beginning and adds the 'slow burn' tag*


	4. Loss and Gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft discovers The Plot™ and John and Mary have an important conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered a scene from TSoT and made a little edit to fit this story:  
> 
> 
> Okay, thank you for your time. Now, on with the story.  
> \------------------------------------------------------------

The day after the attack on John and Mary, Mycroft was in his club. It was the early evening and Anthea had just brought him a whisky sour with a few evening papers and a stack of documents. More work regarding Sherlock’s return. Somebody must have been watching Baker Street, because there was already a rumour going round about Sherlock. Mycroft had texted John about this, to make sure he was in the loop and that he might be stopped by journalists when he left the flat. Mycroft had told Sherlock to stay inside until he had paved the way for a public statement. Not that Sherlock would ever heed that if there was something he considered worth leaving the flat for. Mycroft sighed. As ever, managing Sherlock seemed to be one of his prime occupations again.

He was just finishing skimming the first paper when his phone rang. He picked it up with some annoyance. “Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you sir,” came Anthea’s voice. “But we have a problem.”

He sat up straighter. He immediately thought of Sherlock. “Why don’t you come in?”

“Yes, sir. Evans is here with me, sir. He can explain.” She ended the call. Evans? He thought for a moment. _Ah, yes. The man in charge of the security posted at the hospital._

There was a polite knock and the door opened to reveal Anthea and the tall, muscled form of Mr. Evans, wearing a black suit. Mycroft pushed the papers away from him and leaned back. He braced himself for whatever catastrophe was imminent.

“Sir,” Evans stood straight. “About twenty minutes ago, we were alerted by the hospital staff that the two men under our surveillance had left their rooms and were nowhere to be found. Miles, who was posted by the door, was discovered unconscious, probably by a high dosage of a sedative. They put him under observation until he wakes up. We haven’t found a trace of them, but reckon they must have taken the fire escape. My team has begun searching the hospital on the chance they’re still there. The man who’d been shot was still recovering and couldn’t have walked very well.”

Mycroft took it all in without moving a muscle. _Damn_. “They must have had outside help,” he surmised. “Don’t bother searching the hospital, they’re long gone. I don’t care how they did it, but get in touch with Rogers in surveillance. I’ll authorise a large scale search for them.” He nodded to Anthea, who immediately began tapping on her phone.

“The sniper was still unaccounted for. Was there any sign that suggested they might have shown up at the hospital?”

“Difficult to say, sir, since we don’t know who we’re looking for,” Evans replied, still professional, but with a touch of unease.

“Hmm. It seems I have underestimated the importance of these men. Somebody clearly needs them for something, or they wouldn’t have bothered getting them whilst they are still injured.”

“Sir,” Anthea stepped forward. “Rogers is on it.”

“Good. Let’s go to the hospital, shall we?”

 

_____________________________

 

At St. Bart’s, Mycroft checked in with the team and gave some instructions. He listened to several reports about interviews with the staff and the state of the room. After about twenty minutes he had a clear picture. One of the men had a broken wrist and dislocated shoulder; Sherlock had not taken kindly to someone choking John. Mycroft was reminded of the CIA man he had worked with during the whole Irene Adler crisis, who, as far as he was able to find out, had literally been thrown out of the window at Baker Street after holding Sherlock’s landlady hostage. He marvelled once again at the extreme emotions Sherlock’s close friends could provoke in him. Everyone always thought he was cold or restrained, but he was the exact opposite.

When he had been younger, Mycroft had always felt overwhelmed by the whirlwind that was Sherlock, the uncontainable bursts of emotion in the boy shocking the shy young man Mycroft had been. He didn’t know what to do with him back then, and he still didn’t, not really. He was a force of nature and in many respects, still a bit of a child. So if someone injured or threatened the people he loved, he simply tore through them with a vengeance. Mycroft reckoned that it was this strange relentlessness that made people like John feel so drawn to him; it was simply _enthralling_. Mycroft, however, thought it was volatile and dangerous.

Mycroft tore himself out of his reflections and continued surveying the case. Of the two men, the one Mary had shot was suffering from a rather nasty thigh wound and couldn’t walk properly. Unfortunately, there had been no traces of blood found anywhere, so he must have been careful not to upset his wound when he left. One man with a broken wrist and one with a shot leg – they couldn’t have climbed down a fire escape. Which meant that they left slowly, _normally_ , probably in plain sight. Perhaps disguised? It was obvious that they had substantial outside help, as he feared. He quickly decided that another chat with Miss Morstan might be in order. Perhaps she hadn’t told them everything she knew.

 

_____________________________

 

Sherlock stood by the window and watched John and Mary get in a taxi. Good, that was good. John needed to get out a little, even Sherlock saw that. His presence still bothered him, in a way Sherlock had never believed possible. He knew John had felt his loss keenly, and apparently that didn’t just go away overnight. He used to be so easy around him, enduring all of his _eccentricities_ , as he put it. But things were different, now. Often during the past two days, he had looked at Sherlock with such a strange expression that it was hard to deduce what he was thinking. There was grief, yes, and (surprisingly) _longing_ , and happiness, but also a strange, wary expectancy; as if Sherlock wasn’t real or as if John feared that at any moment, he would jump of the nearest rooftop all over again. Things had been simpler once, back when all it took was a dangerous chase through London for John to lose his walking stick. It was infuriating to Sherlock to feel so helpless – what else did John want him to say? He explained, he promised never to go away again, but somehow, John either didn’t hear him or didn’t believe him. And he simply did not know how to get John to believe in him again.

He heard a faint rap on the door and a melodious ‘yoo-hoo’, announcing Mrs Hudson. She stepped in and he knew she was carrying something heavy. She placed the tea set – Sherlock heard the clink of the porcelain – on the sofa table and sat down. “Sherlock, come and have tea with me,” she said, kindly.

Sherlock finally turned around and when their eyes met, her face softened into something even more motherly. “We haven’t had a chance to really… since you returned, and I thought—“ she gestured to a plate full of biscuits and then began pouring some tea. Sherlock went to the couch and sat down, pulling his legs up to his body. Mrs Hudson handed him a cup. “Thank you,” he managed. For the next ten minutes or so, they sipped their tea in silence, broken only by Sherlock devouring several biscuits and the occasional tinkle of the cups. Mrs Hudson said nothing and seemed quite content to sit with him, just like this. Sherlock thought that he had never been fonder of her than in that moment.

Finally, he put down his empty cup. “It’s good to be back,” he said quietly.

She smiled and placed a hand on his thigh. “Yes, it is good,” she agreed. “It wasn’t the same without you.” She paused. “ _He_ wasn’t the same without you,” she added, tentatively.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to hers. “I know,” he said.

“Have you talked, at all?” she asked, still in that same very careful tone. Sherlock really didn’t want to talk about John, but at the same time, if there was anyone to talk to about this, it was Mrs Hudson.

“Yes, we did,” he told her, a bit reluctantly.

“Good,” she said, and patted his leg again before grabbing another biscuit.

_Things that are good: talking to John._

“He’s out with Mary, then?” she asked almost too casually.

“Yes.”

“I see.” She finished her tea and demonstratively set down the cup. “Don’t worry. They’re not going to last,” she announced.

Sherlock frowned. “Why would I worry? And what do you mean?”

Mrs Hudson merely gave him a knowing smile and scoffed. “Well, firstly, of course you worry. He’s all _yours_ , isn’t he?” She laughed. “And secondly, I can just tell. You may be able to deduce the lint off my apron, but I can see when two people are crazy about each other—“ here, she shot Sherlock a very pointed look – “and they are not _like that_ , I don’t think.”

Sherlock felt a bit of colour rising in his cheeks when she casually proclaimed John to be _his_. He’d never really thought about it that way, but it somehow felt true. When Mycroft had told him, back in Russia, that he was _needed in England_ , he had basically heard that as ‘needed by John’. Because John didn’t have him and was dating an assassin instead.

“I’m not so sure,” he said thoughtfully, not even bothering to deny anything Mrs Hudson had said. “She’s different.”

Mrs Hudson scoffed. “So? She’s not you,” she said, pointedly, stating the obvious.

Sherlock smiled at her. There was something so motherly about her unshakeable belief in him – and John – that made him feel safe and reassured. Perhaps she was right about Mary, perhaps it would pass. Perhaps the fact that she was an _ex-_ assassin made her less of a dangerous enticement than he thought. After all, she was the one who wanted to be _normal_ , right? Would John ever settle for _normal_?

Mrs Hudson tutted over him a bit more and then left him alone again. And Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, wondering about John. And he finally confronted the possibility that John and Mary may not last after all, and… _what the hell was he going to do then_? Because, as far as he could tell, he and John were definitely not _like that._ And why was that? Sherlock was reminded of a conversation long ago. _I consider myself married to my work._ Of course, John was pragmatic and had never tried again after that blunt rejection. He once thought that Sherlock was pining after Irene Adler, and the memory of the sudden bouts of possessiveness this had engendered in him made Sherlock smile. Irene herself had proclaimed them to be a couple, and they kind of had been, back then; in almost all ways but the one that most people considered of defining importance.

They had never discussed The Woman after that, and since then, John seemed to be content with labouring under the impression that, once she was out of the picture, Sherlock was not _like that_ with anyone _,_ period _._ Once again, he wondered when he had begun changing his mind. Perhaps it was simply the shock of seeing John again, being back at Baker Street, having all these feelings suddenly rush in to fill the void of the past six months. He would get used to it and then he would think no more of _things like that._ Sherlock turned over, closing his eyes, pushing the thoughts away.

 

_____________________________

 

John held Mary’s hand as they wandered around the art gallery. They looked at the different impressionist pieces, read some facts about Monet and his contemporaries, and listened in on one of the guided tours. It was… nice. However, something was definitely different than before. John noticed he was constantly looking over his shoulder. He realised that he expected Sherlock to come sashaying in around the next corner with some flimsy excuse about a case, latching on to them and deducing all of the other museum visitors. John smiled at the thought and began examining the people around him, trying to see what Sherlock saw.

Mary, who was holding on to his arm, suddenly bumped into him and said, “care to fill me in?”

“What?”

“What’s so interesting about the other people?”

“Oh,” John looked around uncertainly. He hadn’t really been able to ‘deduce’ anything, if he was honest. “Nothing, really,” he said.

Mary narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re trying to think like him, aren’t you?”

John shrugged. “Maybe. It’s a habit that sort of started when he was… you know. Dead.”

Mary squeezed his arm. “So what have you _deduced_?”

“Nothing, honestly,” John said and laughed. “I am rubbish at it.”

“Oh, come on,” she teased.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been taking notice of people. You know, remembering how someone walks or dresses or how they behave in specific moments. Unimportant stuff,” he added and looked around at the people milling in front of the paintings.

“Not always unimportant, though?” Mary smiled.

“I, um— no. Sometimes, uh, on cases, it’s these little things that make a difference. It made me pay more attention, I guess.” John was hesitant. He had grown used to _not_ talking about his time working cases with Sherlock. And when he did talk about them, he was slowly, gradually coming to terms with it as the _past_. Over and done with. Now, he might need this kind of attention to detail again. If they went on cases again. Would they? _Christ, it has only been two days_.

Mary squeezed his arm again. “That’s really special, you know. Seeing the things everyone else misses. You must have loved working with him.”

John thought that it was probably impossible that Mary existed. She seemed to be the only person who didn’t think Sherlock was a complete freak and John was a weirdo for liking him. He swallowed against a lump in his throat and said, quietly, “yeah, I did.” He looked over his shoulder again.

Mary laughed again. “Don’t worry,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

John rubbed his neck a little sheepishly as they strolled past more paintings. “It’s not that. It’s just… uh. Sherlock had a habit of… interrupting my dates,” he finally admitted.

“Really?” Mary laughed.

“Yes, actually. Once, he basically suggested I should take a girl to this circus, simply because it was a lead in a case. We got kidnapped,” he added, with an eye-roll. It seemed like ages ago.

“Oh! I read that one,” Mary said. “It was one of the early ones, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John said. “But it wasn’t the only time. He usually had an excuse related to a case or some other emergency. His timing was infallible.”

Mary grinned, but there was something thoughtful crossing her face. John figured that perhaps it was time to stop thinking or talking about his genius flatmate and focus more on his nice, currently uninterrupted date. He tried to push the thought away how it felt as if, just a bit, he really wanted it to be interrupted. The tension from running after criminals with Sherlock was definitely preferable to the tension rising from Mary’s worrying degrees of _thoughtfulness_.

They strolled through a few more rooms. After a while, however, John thought that all of the paintings with their colourful dot work simply blurred together, and he felt a headache building up again. He asked Mary to wait for him and she sat on a bench in one of the less crowded rooms whilst he went in search of the restrooms. When he was done, he washed his hands and looked at his face in the mirror. He was still quite a mess; he looked tired and a bit gaunter than was healthy. Perhaps he should have stayed in bed. All the same, he was glad to get out from under Sherlock’s feet for a bit. He simply didn’t know how to act around him anymore, and that weird watchfulness Sherlock was displaying wasn’t helping.

He pulled himself together and went back to Mary. She was sitting on the bench in front of a large picture of a landscape. He sat down and they regarded the painting for a while. Finally, Mary said, “I don’t get it.”

John laughed, surprised. He tilted his head to one side and then shrugged. “No, me either,” he said, and Mary grinned. They shared a moment of looking at each other and all John could think was, _she’s great, this should be so easy, why isn’t this easy?_

And Mary’s smile suddenly softened into something sad and concerned and she finally said, “John, we need to talk.”

“Oh?” He felt his heart sink a little. That sentence was never followed by anything good, ever.

“No, I mean it,” she said, and actually shuffled a little closer on the bench. “This isn’t something I’m just deciding on my own.”

“O-kay…?” John ventured, a bit confused now. He searched her face and took in her expression. “Is this a break-up conversation?”

She winced and pulled an apologetic face. “Well… not yet?” she tried. “I don’t know. John, it’s just… you’re _great_. No, really,” she said, when she saw his dejected look. “You could probably make me very happy, I honestly believe that.”

John swallowed and suddenly realised what she meant and why they needed to have this conversation. “I think you’re pretty great, too,” he said, slowly. “In fact, I keep reminding myself how perfect you are, Mary.”

She nodded, keeping her eyes locked with his, confirming, knowing he was somewhat on the same page as her.“ I believe I could make you happy, too,” she said. “I think we’re not a bad pair.”

“I agree,” John said.

She waited a moment before she said what they were both thinking. “So… why are we _not—_?” She kept the sentence unfinished, but John knew what she was saying. Something was definitely _not_ happening between them.

John gave her a rueful smile. “I honestly don’t know.” He sighed and looked back at the painting for a bit.

Finally, Mary said, “okay, I’ve thought about it, but I simply cannot think of a better way to say this.” She took a breath. “John, I would really like to be friends with you.”

John looked at her again and pointedly raised an eyebrow. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

“No, I mean yes, I mean… I think what I mean is that I think we should stop dating,” she hedged, but hastily went on before he could react. “But you know how people always say ‘we could stay friends’ or something? I really mean it. I really like you and I would like to have you in my life; just…”

“Just not as a boyfriend?”

“Well,” she said, as if weighing how to tell him. “I wouldn’t mind the boyfriend bit, in fact, that could have been lovely. But I don’t think that is what you can really give me right now. I also think it’s not really what you want anymore.”

“How do you know what I want? I hardly know myself,” he said.

Mary, to his surprise, smiled. “Yes, you do.” She sighed. “Look. I like you. I like hanging out with you, you’re fun. I want us to become closer friends.” As if to demonstrate, she placed her hand on top of his where it rested on the bench. “You know – talk. Have an interest in each other’s lives and all that.”

John nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. That sounds… good.”

Mary lowered her voice a little and leaned into him. “But can you honestly tell me that there are fireworks when we kiss or that you can’t wait to get into my pants?” She gave him a little smirk.

John felt himself blush a bit. “There aren’t always fireworks, are there,” he said, pouting a little. “And I do have a concussion,” he pointed out.

Mary laughed. “John, I think by now I can read you too well.”

“Oh God, _not you, too_ ,” John muttered.

“Why are you not telling me what you really think?” she asked. “I mean, you’re not an idiot and you’ve dated plenty of women. I can tell you’ve been thinking about this, too.”

He had, of course. And he knew she was right. So why wasn’t he admitting it? _Because if I do, I have to think about the reasons why I am not with her. I’ll have to think about why it doesn’t bother me that she is breaking up with me._ He felt her shoulder press against his. He could smell her perfume. Her hand was soft and warm. She was pleasant, in every way. Sherlock, on the other hand, was pretty unpleasant most of the time. Harsh and angular and contrary and different and strange and crazy— _and why the hell was he comparing them again_?

“I have,” John said, and then had to clear his throat, pushing the thought of Sherlock out of his mind. “I’m sorry. I, uh, look. I don’t _want_ you to be right. But I think you are,” he said. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he had to at least be honest.

Mary smiled a little sadly. “I know.”

“God damn it,” John swore. He laughed. “I can see this whole thing. Us. I can see it really clearly,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” she said, and sighed. She looked back at the painting. “We’d be dating for a few months. I’ve got a big flat, I’d ask you to move in eventually. You’d probably propose at some point.”

“A romantic dinner somewhere,” he said.

“You’d definitely botch it up somehow, because you’re always so nervous,” she said with a laugh.

“Yeah, probably,” John admitted, and they shared a smile. Finally, he said, “I think I know what you mean now.”

“What?”

“I’d like to stay friends with you, too. You’re about the only person who has made me laugh recently.” He could tell that she really wanted to say, _what about Sherlock?_ But thankfully, she didn’t. Perhaps it was time for this conversation to end.

“Good,” she said, and seemed to take his cue. “Fancy getting a late snack and a pint somewhere?”

“That’s what friends are for,” he said, and squeezed her hand one more time.

 

_____________________________

 

When John came in late that night, Sherlock was in the kitchen with an experiment. Examining the composition of the dirt on the windowpane was pretty negligible in the grand scheme of things, but it gave him something to do. John was humming to himself a little as he hung up his jacket and then looked in the kitchen. “Hello – still up then?” he smiled, knowing that Sherlock slept very little, of course; but he always made nonsensical statements like this, regardless. It was nice to see that some part of their routine was getting back to normal.

He took in John’s appearance from top to bottom in a few seconds. He had recently eaten at a pub. One pint. Judging by his attitude, he seemed to have had a good time, and knowing John, probably more fun at the pub than at the gallery. He still hadn’t gone home with Mary. Also, he still hadn’t slept with Mary in general; Sherlock was pretty sure about that. The thought spurred on the slight hope he had allowed himself since earlier, even though he was completely oblivious as to why John having or not having sex with anyone should have that effect on him. The thought of John having sex at all suddenly made him feel a bit of a lurch in his stomach, as if the floor beneath him had given way. He realised he was staring.

“You all right?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock managed, blinking. “Good. How was your date?” he asked.

An odd, searching expression crossed John’s face. “It was nice,” he said, glancing away. “Although I am not into impressionism as much as I thought I was.”

Sherlock laughed at that. “I could have told you that.”

“Probably,” John conceded with a fond smile. “What are you up to?”

Sherlock was momentarily distracted by John’s smile. John hadn’t really laughed much since he returned. The wrinkles next to John’s eyes were fascinating to look at. “Hm? Oh, just… dirt from the window,” he replied.

“So, an exciting night then,” John said, wiggling his eyebrows, and then he yawned. “I’m going to bed, my head is still a bit woozy. Good night.”

“Night,” Sherlock said. He looked through his microscope again, listening to John’s steps fading on the stairs. At some point he blinked; he didn’t know how long it took him to see that he’d forgotten to put the next slide in.

 

_____________________________

 

That night, Sherlock slept. He wasn’t officially back alive yet, and Mycroft still hadn’t gotten back to him about the assassination attempt on John and Mary. No news from his sources on the street on the missing sniper. And Mary herself hadn’t done anything yet that gave her away. So, seeing as there was no case to occupy his mind, Sherlock used the free time to actually catch up on sleep. He hadn’t gotten much during his time away, and – as loath as he was to admit it – it was comforting to be back at Baker Street, in his own bed.

And as he slept, he dreamed. He didn’t often dream; his theory was that he worked out most of his subconscious issues in his mind palace, one at a time, and then laid them to rest so they couldn’t bother or distract him in his work. However, tonight he dreamt of John.

John, he had to acknowledge, was about the only thing he couldn’t really work out, and so he had put everything to do with him aside, in its own little room, and never looked at it. Perhaps, once or twice, during his exile; but only if he felt particularly homesick. There was something so _home_ about John, with his comfy jumpers and tea and his pragmatic doctor’s attitude.

Sherlock knew it was a dream, but unfortunately even _his_ extraordinary brain didn’t make him more able to control it than anybody else. The images felt as real as the memories they were based on. He was lying on the cold pavement in front of St. Bart’s, but this time the blood on his head was real. He felt his life ebbing away with each shaky breath. John was lying next to him, holding his hand. His head, too, was splattered with red, his eyes turning glassy.

 _Nobody could be that clever_ , Sherlock said, his tongue feeling heavy.

 _You could_ , John said, and his eyes were full of that strange fondness; and how could he still be looking at Sherlock like that when they were dying?

 _Why did you jump with me?_ Sherlock asked.

John was still smiling. _Sherlock, how could you not know that? How do you not see what’s right in front of your eyes?_

And then the image shifted and Sherlock stood on the graveyard, watching John.

 _I was so alone. And I owe you so much,_ John said, tentatively brushing his fingers over the fake gravestone. And then Sherlock was there with him, wrapping his arms around him from behind, telling him the truth then and there because it was unbearable to see John mourn. And John leaned into him and sighed and murmured _I knew you weren’t dead,_ and suddenly he turned in his arms and pressed Sherlock against a tree; and the gravestone and the flowers and St. Bart’s were forgotten as John began kissing him, wrapping his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock was kissing him back desperately, longingly, and he couldn’t see or hear or feel or taste anything except _John_ —

Sherlock awoke with a start. There was a ringing in his ears and he could have sworn he had just moaned John’s name in the silence of his bedroom. Except there wasn’t just silence; something had woken him up. His body was tense, remembering certain nights spent in shacks or hideouts, waiting for that one sound that announced one of Moriarty’s killers having finally found him to take revenge. But the sounds that drifted down through the ceiling weren’t sneaking footsteps – it was John.

Sherlock was out of his bed and up the stairs in seconds before he even knew what he was doing. His hand raised to open the door, poised on John’s doorstep, he listened.

 

_____________________________

 

John was having a nightmare. At first, it was the same one he’d been having for months; recurring themes surrounding Sherlock’s death. His phone wasn’t working and he missed Sherlock’s call. He was too late and merely saw him jump, never got his ‘note’. Or he tried to argue Sherlock out of jumping, but he brushed him away. _Who do you think you are? I don’t have friends._

But then, the dream shifted. Now it was them, sitting opposite each other in their armchairs. _So, what’s going on with Mary?_ Sherlock asked, almost sneering.

 _Nothing_ , John said. _Nothing is going on because_ —

Sherlock laughed, levelling his steely gaze at him over his steepled fingers. _Why would you break up with Mary for me? It’s not like I’ll ever be available, is it?_

 _But I thought—_ John said, thinking that of course, Sherlock must have said something, didn’t he? John was absolutely convinced that Sherlock had somehow, at some point, told him that he felt the same, so what was happening?

Sherlock shook his head, sadly. _You must have misunderstood, John. Remember, the Work always comes first._

 _I know that,_ John argued, and he felt anger pulsing through him suddenly. _I am the one who’s closest to you, so of course I know that. How could you not tell me what you were doing?!_ He jumped up and loomed over Sherlock and then he picked him out of his chair and tackled him to the ground, strangling him. And then he saw Sherlock’s face beneath his hands and saw tears falling onto that face, looking at him with such confusion. _John? John, are you all right?_ He looked so worried and concerned and he wasn’t dead… and then John felt himself giving in, and his anger was gone, replaced by something much more fragile, and he was kissing him, feeling his body pressed flush against Sherlock underneath him; long arms wrap around him, and Sherlock was kissing him back, apologizing between kisses, promising never to leave again. Then John looked up from the kiss, through his tears, and saw only blood, Sherlock’s lifeless body on the pavement in front of St. Bart’s, his skin paler than ever, and he began shaking him and yelling his name—

 

 

_“John!”_

His arms were gripped, hard, holding him in place. At first he thought it was the people at St. Bart’s – the ones holding him back from examining Sherlock’s body. “He’s my friend,” he mumbled incoherently, fighting their grip.

“John, stop.” The voice was warm and quiet. “Wake up. It was only a nightmare. John.”

John took a few laboured breaths and sat up. Everything was dark and he felt a bit dizzy. Suddenly he sagged forward, only to be caught by Sherlock’s arms, and it felt like the only place worth being at the moment. Images from the dream spun through his head.

He felt Sherlock’s breathing in his hair. He was in his pyjamas, too, and even though that usually didn’t mean that he slept, he actually smelled like sleep and felt somehow softer than usual. _How would I know_? John asked himself. _It’s not like we ever touch._ But he was tired, so he didn’t think too much about all of that and let himself be held and tried not to move to shatter the moment. Sherlock began rubbing circles on his back, a little uncertainly. John sighed, content. He hadn’t known how reassuring touching Sherlock could be; how much it helped to convince him that he was really back.

Sherlock’s arms loosened around him, and he felt himself be lowered back onto the mattress. In the dark, he could just about make out Sherlock’s lanky form in front of him, when he suddenly climbed onto the bed and over John to slump down on the other side. With a bit of scrambling, Sherlock maneuvered himself under the blanket, and John felt it tighten across his chest and he was very aware of the gap between them where the blanket stretched to cover them both. He had always thought the blanket was rather too big for him, but now it seemed way too small to contain all of what was happening.

“Relax,” Sherlock muttered. John slowly released the breath he’d been holding. “I had a nightmare, too,” Sherlock said quietly.

John frowned. The sudden honesty surprised him more than anything else. He turned to his side. He could barely see Sherlock’s face in the hints of shadows from the streetlight behind his blinds. “What about?” His voice was almost a whisper. What the hell was going on? This was _unreal_. Was he still dreaming?

“You,” Sherlock said. “You jumped with me.”

“Why did I do that?” John asked, his heart clenching at the memory of his own dreams.

“I have no idea,” Sherlock admitted, and John felt his annoyed huff of breath on his face. “But you do, I think.”

John breathed a small laugh. “Don’t ask me, it was your dream.”

Sherlock made an annoyed sound again. “What about you?”

John paused a moment, then let out a short sigh. It was the middle of the night and Sherlock was in his bed, being honest and vulnerable; there was no way he could lie. “You, of course.” He felt Sherlock go still next to him. “Your jump. Missing your last phone call. Things like that,” he broke off. No need to go into the rest of it.

“I was at the graveyard,” Sherlock finally said, his voice a deep murmur in the darkness. “That day.” John saw himself, standing by the grave, imagining Sherlock only meters away. He thought of his little speech.

“I— I asked you for one more miracle,” John said, his voice hitching in his throat.

“I heard you.”

John smiled. “Of course you did.” If Sherlock Holmes had managed to hear him that day, and came back to him, and now he was in his bed to stop his nightmares, perhaps it was time to start believing in him again. And everything else would somehow sort itself out.

John fell asleep, and the last thing he knew was a slender hand that found its way into his.


	5. New Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Case! Yes, I re-wrote the A.G.R.A. story for this fic. More of that to come in later chapters :-)

The next morning, John woke up alone. At first, he wondered why that felt strange, until he remembered _Sherlock_. He jolted awake and looked around. He could still see where there had been another head on a pillow next to him, and Sherlock’s scent lingered ever so gently in the bed. So it had definitely not been a dream and he couldn’t have been gone long. John swallowed and brushed a hand through his hair. Then he looked at his hand. He was pretty sure he’d been holding on to Sherlock before he fell asleep.

John stared ahead of him for a while, trying to go through it one more time. He found out Sherlock wasn’t dead, got nearly strangled to death, broke up with his girlfriend whilst confronting that he was probably harbouring feelings for his once-again-flatmate, and dreamed about both strangling and snogging him at once whilst still coming to terms with his death; now finding said flatmate had spent all night in his bed, holding his hand to hold the nightmares at bay… it was complicating things even further. What the hell did he want from Sherlock at this point? And what did Sherlock want from him?

His head was still reeling when he made his way downstairs. And then all of these thoughts stopped when he saw Sherlock. Just him _being here_ was still enough to completely shut down his brain. Sherlock was standing by the kitchen counter and turned around, holding out a cup of tea to John. He smiled at him fondly. “Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual. It was such a domestic scene, almost as if nothing had ever changed. Sherlock was fully dressed, all lean and sharp angles and looking nothing like the rumpled mess from last night. Yet now John began to recognize that slight wavering, the uncertainty, that softness around the edges he had been seeing in Sherlock ever since he’d come back to Baker Street. After what he’d said last night, it was beginning to make sense. Sherlock struggled with nightmares, too. He hadn’t just come upstairs to wake John; he needed John perhaps as much as John needed him. He was only human, after all.

John blinked several times before he walked in to accept the cup. “Thank you,” he managed. He leaned back against the table and took a sip.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked after a moment.

John took a deep breath and looked up. And then he smiled as he took in Sherlock’s worried expression. “Yeah, I’m all right,” he said, and he meant it.

“Good,” Sherlock said and then abruptly changed moods, as only he could. He wriggled his eyebrows. “Because there might be a case. If… you’re interested, that is,” he added, glancing up from his tea as casually as possible.

John laughed. “Are you kidding me? Of course I am.” He was glad to see Sherlock relax at that. “But what do you mean, ‘there might be’? Usually, you get the text and you’re out the door five minutes later.” If Sherlock’s lip quirked a little when John said _usually_ , neither of them commented on it.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and twirled it around as he walked back into the sitting room. “It seems my brother has lost our assassins,” he said.

John followed him, feeling his laughter die in his throat. “You mean the ones at the hospital? How?”

“Oh how should I know – either his staff isn’t up to his usual standards or he severely misjudged the importance of the matter.” Sherlock sounded genuinely annoyed.

John still didn’t know much more about the attempted murder on him and Mary, and with the concussion and all he hadn’t really bothered to ask. Perhaps now he could get some answers. “Do they know why they were after me and Mary yet?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment. “Not yet,” he said.

John settled in his armchair. “So how does this translate into a case?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his phone at John. “Don’t know that yet, either,” he admitted with a bit of a sheepish smile. “But I can almost sense it.” He sounded like he was trying to taste the next murder on the very air they breathed. He flopped down in his chair, his body humming with tension, full of expectation. “Why else would they have escaped the hospital? A relatively safe space, medical care for their injuries, they’d only leave if they had a job to finish,” he said, raising an eyebrow at John.

John gave a little double take, finally catching up with the facts. “Oh… Oh! Wait a minute… am I the _bait_ here?”

Sherlock fixed his eyes on him. “Might be Mary,” he said quietly.

John narrowed his eyes at him but decided he wouldn’t go there. “If there’s something she wants to keep secret,” he began, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, finishing his sentence, “—she’ll tell you when she’s ready, I know.” He sighed dramatically.

“But seriously, Sherlock,” John said. “Are you and Mycroft using me – or Mary – as bait? Because I’d like to be in the know when that’s the case.”

Sherlock acknowledged that with a nod. “Fair enough. But no, I am not. I don’t know what Mycroft is doing, exactly, but I believe he is trying to retrieve them without letting it get that far. But they’re going to do something, it’s only logical.”

“Hm,” John agreed, sipping his tea. A dark cloud had settled over the tentative enthusiasm he had allowed himself when he woke up. “So… we’re just going to sit here, waiting for a text?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, his eyes sparkling. “You’re up to your usual form again, I see.”

John laughed and Sherlock joined in, his eyes crinkling.

 

_____________________________

 

It took another two hours for the text to arrive. John cocked his head and got up as soon as he heard the phone, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Lestrade was brief – and sounded annoyed.

 _Got a body in Greenwich._  
_Mycroft seems to think your_  
_input is needed._

Another text followed with the precise address. Sherlock made a delighted sound and got up. He tossed John his phone to show him the message. “And you’d think he’d be pleased to be working with us again,” he said, sounding offended.

John shook his head, looking thoughtful, as they grabbed their jackets. “Who do you think it is?” John asked. “The victim, I mean.”

Sherlock settled his coat around his shoulders, paused in the door and looked back at John. He could see the worry lines in his face. John usually reacted that way whenever anyone died, and sometimes it was good to be reminded of that. He was feeling the excitement of the case taking over, but he forced a somewhat sombre expression on his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “But we’ll find out and if it was the same people, we’ll have more of a clue why they were after you.” Sherlock realised as he said it that this was the only way he could really make himself care – the dead would stay dead, no matter how much it did or didn’t affect him. But he cared as far as a threat to John was concerned, and that was something.

John looked taken aback and blinked at him again. They went downstairs and Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her kitchen for a moment. “Got a case, dear?” she said in that cheerful voice parents probably used to inquire after their children’s dates for the night.

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said and swept her into a quick hug. “Finally back in the game,” he added with a wink and she laughed and tutted.

“It’s good to have him back, isn’t it,” she said with a twinkle at John. John laughed and shook his head indulgently and Sherlock felt that that look would probably keep him up all night if he stopped to try and figure it out.

When they sat in the taxi, John was looking out of the other window and said, “thank you. For making an effort.”

“What?” Sherlock turned to him.

John gave him a look. “You don’t really care about the victim, I know that; but you made an effort to not sound so callous about it. Thanks for that,” he said earnestly. And his eyes, always more eloquent than his lips, seemed to add, _I can tell you’re doing it for me._

“But I think I’d have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it.”

Sherlock gave him a bemused smile. “Love what?”

“Being Sherlock Holmes,” John said with a grin. And Sherlock had to fight very hard not to blush.

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” he said.

John shook his head again. “I do,” he said. “And if I could just explain that to everybody else, we’d all have such a better time at crime scenes,” he added thoughtfully and in such a serious tone that it made Sherlock laugh again.

 

_____________________________

 

When they arrived in Greenwich, Sherlock immediately went ahead with being _Sherlock_. Moments after he leapt from the taxi, John recalled that not everyone was in the know about Sherlock even being alive; but it was too late to say anything. Luckily, Lestrade met them on the kerb. John remembered that he’d been at the hospital, and wondered who else knew.

“Now, wait a minute, Lazarus,” he chided, barring Sherlock’s way into the building. “Just a few preliminaries.” Greg took a moment to give John a nod and a brief smile. “John. You’re looking better. Good.”

“Yeah,” John nodded back and glanced over the posh house. There didn’t seem to be many officers around, and the street was practically empty.

“So, your brother basically took this one over virtually minutes after we discovered the body,” Lestrade explained, still not moving an inch. “He made sure there was only limited staff here. Mostly, I think, for your benefit, so don’t ruin it,” he said with a glare at Sherlock. “I’ve filled them in that you’re alive, but seeing as this is now a classified investigation, it’s not like they could blab anyway.”

That explained the empty street, John mused. He took in the almost manicured garden, the bright front windows and expensive car in the driveway. “Classified… so who was the victim?”

“Montgomery Blanchard, former aide to a British Ambassador,” Lestrade said, flipping open a notebook.

“Bloody hell, and I thought only your family had names like that,” John muttered and Sherlock’s lips quirked up briefly.

Sherlock scoffed. “I can see why Mycroft wanted us here; this is hitting a little closer to home. However, that doesn’t mean it’s got anything to do with our assassins,” he observed.

“Is that what he thinks?” Lestrade gave him a sceptical look that said _nobody bloody tells me anything,_ but then he finally stepped aside and led them up to the house. “Well, anyway, deceased was 53 years of age, in early retirement. Left behind a widow, whom you will absolutely _not_ talk to, and no children.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “What do you mean—“

“Perhaps I should talk to, uh, Mrs Blanchard?” John offered helpfully.

To his chagrin, both Sherlock and Lestrade looked at him doubtfully, so he raised his hands. “All right, I get it, just the sidekick, carry on…” he rolled his eyes.

But Sherlock, surprisingly, slapped him on the shoulder with  a positively _chipper_ smile. “Nonsense. You can come with me and make sure I behave.” He looked at Lestrade. John thought that Sherlock was still way too cheerful to be talking to any bereaved family members, but the DI wavered. From what John could see, there weren’t too many people at the crime scene, so perhaps he was out of options.

“Oh, all right, but if she cries because of you, you’re out.”

“I would never!” Sherlock exclaimed, scandalized, and practically pushed John along with him, arm still around his shoulder.

 

_____________________________

 

They first examined the body. The late Mr Montgomery Blanchard lay in the small conservatory at the back of the house. Half the room was a tastefully furnished sitting room that opened up into a wall and curved roof of large windows. Outside, the spacious garden was tucked away for the winter, with a few busy birdhouses and tarpaulins covering assorted furniture.

Mr Blanchard’s body was draped over one of the sofas. “Nobody touched anything,” Lestrade observed as they came in. “We did preliminary evidence and DNA swipes, but so far there’s not much to be found.” He nodded to a single forensics team member who was carefully scratching a few fibres of the rug into a plastic bag, looking a little forlorn without the rest of the team.

Sherlock ignored everything and went straight to the body, giving it the once over with his falcon’s stare. He was in his element. John stood by and felt a familiar rush of horror mixed with adrenaline course through him. The body brought their bantering into sharp perspective and the return of his old life with Sherlock suddenly hit him squarely in the gut. He was shocked by his inappropriate elation, shocked like a dying man hit by a defibrillator. The reality of the man’s pale skin, unnatural pose and swollen face starkly reminded John that he was finally back among the living and that he had a job to do.

He stepped closer, grabbed some disposable gloves from a box and began examining the body. Sherlock was kneeling next to the sofa on the ground, watching John’s every move. John checked the neck, throat and eyes to be sure, glanced at fingernails and the faint but noticeable skin discoloration. “Strangulation,” he pronounced as he confirmed his first suspicion. “Very little congestion or cyanosis, hardly any skin damage,” he continued. “So… very _efficient_ strangulation.” He saw Sherlock practically beaming at him over the corpse and that was more than a little disturbing. “My guess is some sort of wire or cable, probably a professional garrotte, though,” John concluded, trying to sound practised, even as he realised he hadn’t done anything like this in months.

“I should think so,” Sherlock said, with a cocked eyebrow.

“Time of death,” John said, checking the body again. “Hard to say with so little blood, but I’d say no more than four or five hours ago.”

“You were quick,” Sherlock said, glancing up at Lestrade.

“Widow found him early this morning,” he replied, taking down a few notes. “When she called us, he must have triggered something in your brother’s office, wherever that is. He swooped in as soon as we got here and orchestrated everything.” Lestrade sounded exasperated, but also a little impressed.

“Yeah, he does that,” Sherlock mused absent-mindedly. He finally pulled out his small magnifying glass and checked certain points on the body and the surrounding carpets again. Then a plastic bag and some tweezers appeared and several samples were pocketed before Sherlock jumped up, declaring he was done.

“Any chance I’ll get to see those?” Lestrade asked him wryly.

“Can’t you take your own?” Sherlock asked with a smug voice. John stepped a bit closer and almost imperceptibly inclined his head toward Lestrade. The DI frowned, even though he must have seen it many times before.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to John’s and he looked irritated. But then he said, “we’re taking these to the lab. I’ll send you the results.” John’s lips quirked up. When Sherlock strode majestically from the room, John shared a smile with a bemused Greg.

“One day you’ll have to teach me how you do that,” he said.

John looked after Sherlock and couldn’t help his face to soften a little as he contemplated the strange, sudden bursts of influence he had over him, even after all these months of separation. Greg came a little closer and studied his face a moment. “How are you holding up?”

John shrugged. “All right, I guess. But… it’s good.”

Greg smiled a little. “Yeah, I thought so, mate.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said gruffly. “Just glad you’re back together, is all. It somehow… wasn’t right.” And with that, Lestrade led him from the room, searching for their mad friend.

 

_____________________________

 

They found Sherlock pacing in front of a small library. Through the open door, they saw what had to be Mrs Blanchard sitting erect on a sofa, staring into space. Sherlock gave John a look that said _see, I even waited for you!_ They went in to conduct the impromptu interview, Lestrade tactfully remaining in the background. To John’s intense surprise – this day seemed full of surprises – Sherlock actually behaved like a human being.

True, he was still snappy and to the point, but he didn’t put on an act nor did he actively gallop all over the poor widow’s feelings just because it would speed things up. John was in a constant state of apprehension about his behaviour, so much so that he was easily the most worried person in the room. Mrs Blanchard, by contrast, was a woman of enormous composure; she was in her early fifties and carried herself with dignity that spoke volumes about _good breeding_ and _manners_. Evidently, she not only recognized the name Sherlock Holmes from some of his more illustrious cases, but she also considered it a personal favour that he had come back from the dead to solve the murder of her husband. John and Sherlock wisely did not correct that assumption.

“Well, Mrs Blanchard, I think we can disperse with all the inane police questions about enemies or recent debt, as no doubt I wouldn’t be here if it were that easy,” Sherlock was saying smoothly.

The widow acknowledged this with a dignified incline of her head. She poured both him and John a cup of tea. “Brief and to the point. I appreciate that, Mr Holmes,” she said. “And no, your Detective Inspector,” she nodded towards the door, where Lestrade stood, taking notes, “has already asked me all the _obvious_ questions. My husband had no enemies or recent trouble that I was aware of. No mistresses, gambling debts or illicit children that I am aware of.” She enunciated each of these points with clear distaste dripping from every syllable. John felt sure that if there _were_ , she _would be_ aware of them. “I assume you’re here to ask the not so obvious questions. So do get on with it.”

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows and gave her an appreciative look. “As you wish. Mr Blanchard was a civil servant for many years, I take it?”

“All his professional career,” she said. “Haven’t you read his file?”

“No need.” Sherlock gave a slight wave of the hand and then cocked his head. John recognized his ‘deduction’ face. The widow remained more poised under his glare than most people would. “You were used to him coming home and leaving his work at the office. You never discussed government secrets or what he does, because you both knew it was safer that way. You took pride in being married to a civil servant – but you are happily employed in a different field, no, wait, don’t tell me–”  He glanced at the bookshelves, then back at her. “I’m thinking university professor, something scientific like biology or chemistry, I recognize a kindred spirit.” His lips quirked in a genuine smile for a moment and paused.

Mrs Blanchard merely raised her eyebrows. “Dear me, you really are all they say you are, aren’t you? Biology, King’s College,” she added, and then nodded for him to continue.

John was politely sipping his tea, watching the two like an intense tennis match. God, he had missed this.

“A happy marriage, quiet and based on mutual understanding. But never any crossing of the professional spheres. Oh, except that one time,” he said, leaning forward, studying something in her face that gave him pause. “I’m guessing you never talked about it again, but at the time, you were happy to be a sounding board to your husband, something he probably very much appreciated. You’re an intelligent woman, he could have always confided in you, but there was never any need. Except that one time. When was it?”

Mrs Blanchard swallowed, and John saw that Sherlock was right in all points; particularly about it having been a happy marriage. Despite her impassive demeanour, she was definitely heartbroken about her husband’s death. She took a sip of her tea and then gently placed it back on the table. “As you say, Mrs Holmes. Montgomery and I never needed to bring this up; it was simply how we did things. I did not bother him with university politics and he never talked about his work. But… five years ago, my husband was quite close to a— a scandal, I suppose you could say. Of course this was never made public, but he came to me for advice on the matter. I was surprised, to say the least, but I can see why he did. It all seemed over and done with, but I suppose it could have a bearing on—“ she paused and collected herself a little again.

John glanced at Sherlock, warily counting down the seconds of his patience being spent. But Sherlock merely looked at her with rapt attention. John frowned a little and studied his face, and the way he seemed… almost _fond_ of Mrs Blanchard. There was definitely a story there, and he wondered if he would ever hear it.

Mrs Blanchard sat up straighter. “You see, Mr Holmes, the crux of the matter is this: My husband evidently knew something and he was aware that what he knew was of some importance. However, he did not know exactly _what it was_ that he knew. Five years ago, a British ambassador was killed in the embassy during a coup in Tbilisi, along with his wife and staff members. My husband had been working for the man for years; they had as close a friendship as it was possible in their line of work. He was with him in Tbilisi for a while as his personal aide, but had flown back to England a few days prior to the attack.”

Sherlock gave her a nod. “He came under suspicion?”

“Naturally,” she said. “He guessed from the way his investigation was held, that something had gone wrong during the raid on the embassy.”

“Wrong? Besides the coup?”

“He was never told, but it seems that the ambassador and his people had been _expected_ to get out of the situation. And then they didn’t.”

“So… sabotage?” John interjected, and Mrs Blanchard nodded.

“Montgomery was cleared, but he came to me afterwards and told me his side of the story. It seemed that he really didn’t know anything about sabotage or any rescue missions, but he did happen to find himself in possession of certain security tapes just two weeks before the incident. He watched them and passed on the most salient points to the ambassador. At the time, he didn’t take note of it, but he said to me that looking back, the ambassador gave the impression that Montgomery had unwittingly handed him something valuable.”

“…he did not know exactly _what it was_ _that he knew_ ,” Sherlock repeated her words.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “And he did not tell me. He said that the ambassador contacted someone back at the office about it. He seemed to insinuate that once it was all cleared up, Montgomery would hear the whole story over a bottle of Domaine Dujac.” She laughed sadly in memory of both men. “But they never got the chance.”

“Perhaps it was a good idea of your husband not to tell you any details,” John said, softly.

She looked at him for a moment. “Perhaps.”

“I gather the tapes have long been destroyed,” Sherlock remarked.

“I would imagine so,” she said. “But if not, you’re in a better position to find them than I, Mr Holmes.”

“You said your husband sought your advice on this matter?” John pressed her.

“Yes. My husband was convinced that the matter of the tapes and the call the ambassador made were not known to the people conducting the investigation. He never saw the tapes again, as most of the belongings at the embassy were destroyed or presumed lost. As far as he could tell, nobody knew of their conversation. If the ambassador had begun turning certain wheels, my husband never learned of the results. He asked me if he should bring this matter to the attention of his superiors.”

“Evidently, you cautioned against it?”

She raised her chin. “I didn’t see the point, and neither did Montgomery. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’ is my motto. Montgomery is— _was_ not a _spy_ , Mr Holmes. It was not his job to uncover conspiracies or acts of sabotage. If the ambassador had set things in motion, good. But he was dead, and it was not up to my husband to make sure that whatever he started would be finished. I am sure he would not have expected it of him.”

Sherlock sighed and regarded her with narrowed eyes for a moment. “No, I think I see your point. You are a woman of conviction and your husband would not have asked your opinion if he hadn’t thought you’d provide valuable insight.”

John looked at Sherlock. “But if keeping things quiet kept him safe five years ago, why would someone come after him now?”

“That, John, is indeed the question.”

 

_____________________________

 

In the taxi to St. Bart’s, Sherlock sat quietly for a while, before he looked over at a fidgeting John. He was suddenly reminded of their first taxi ride together.

“You’ve got questions,” he said.

John seemed to catch the reminder and sent him a quick smile. “Always,” he said.

“Go on then.” Sherlock whisked his phone out and sent a quick text to Molly, warning her that they’d stop by. He hadn’t seen her yet since his return, and hoped she wouldn’t mind that the first time he’d show up it would already be on a case. However, he was already working on a way to say thank you to her, a way she might appreciate.

John pressed his lips together, studying him from the side. Sherlock had to suppress a laugh; it was rather endearing how obviously strained John looked when he tried to work something out.

“You… _liked_ Mrs Blanchard, didn’t you.”

Sherlock glanced over. “I respected her composure,” he allowed.

John huffed out one of his delightful little laughs that always conveyed equal parts amusement and disbelief. “No,” he insisted. “No, I grant you that she was a very respectable woman, but _you_ never respect anybody _just_ _like that_ ; so what was it about her that you _liked_ so… immediately?”

Sherlock put his phone away and turned a little, regarding John with a narrowed glance. He was stubborn as ever. But had he always been so insistent when Sherlock was avoiding his questions? His voice was steadier than he remembered, something of the _Captain_ in it, ever since he came back.

“You’ve gotten better at this,” he observed.

“At what?”

“Observing,” Sherlock pointed out.

John swallowed and he looked away for a moment. “I’ve been… practising,” he admitted. Was he _blushing_? Sherlock suddenly felt that he needed to add another room to the John Watson wing in his mind palace (which he tried to ignore, as a rule, to avoid confusion). And yet… an entire room dedicated to analysing the opening of his blood vessels, the rapid rush of blood through the capillaries in his cheeks. He wanted to press his fingertips to the skin to check if it was warmer to the touch now. Possible cause: embarrassment? Anger? From the circumstances, Sherlock guessed it was the former.

“Oh?” was all he said.

John persisted in looking out of the window now, which made it difficult to study his cheeks further. “Well… when you were gone, I sort of… subconsciously began looking at people differently. I tried to see what you saw.” John swallowed, and Sherlock found himself hanging onto every word. “I thought it was worth trying to keep—“ he stopped, evidently having difficulties finishing his sentence.

Sherlock’s fingers involuntarily curled into the fabric of his coat. “Keep what?”

John sighed sharply at the window. He sounded angrier now. Perhaps Sherlock had been mistaken in his assessment of the blush. “I tried to keep something of yours alive, goddammit,” John muttered. “I could never do you justice, you insane genius,” he said, his head lowered. “But I thought it would be a shame if your method died with you, all right? I guess it became a habit.”

Sherlock was silent as he briefly retreated to his mind and tried to go over John’s words again. He saw them right next to everything John had said the previous night; he hadn’t had time to sort through that, either. He wondered if the new room to contain all of this new data was actually big enough.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked, rapidly, catching up with John’s eyes boring into his. And John really must have become quite good at deductions or at least at reading Sherlock Holmes, because he didn’t comment on his sudden lapse in attention. He simply smiled, his anger gone as quickly as it had come. He understood something about the situation, something Sherlock wasn’t quite sure he had understood himself. However… _credit where credit is due_.

“Well,” he cleared his throat and broke the awkward stare he was locked in. “I am… flattered, John. And it seems you were successful.”

“Not bad for an idiot, is that what you’re saying?” A playful note entered John’s voice. His odd mood swings already had their own patio in the mind palace wing.

“Not bad at all, John Watson,” Sherlock said, allowing himself an appreciative glance to the man at his side.

“So… Mrs Blanchard?”

 _Damn. Well._ Sherlock recognized that John had just endured a rather awkward discussion of his way of dealing with Sherlock’s death. Perhaps he now had to offer up something in return, to make them even.

He looked out of the window ahead. “She reminds me of my mother,” he said simply.

John stared at him for a moment, an incredulous smile frozen on his face. Sherlock bristled a little – after all, he had just made some considerable headway in the ‘personal conversation’ department. The least John could do was appreciate it.

“What?” he asked, giving John a look.

John shook himself out of the freeze frame. “Sorry. Uh.” He laughed, self-conscious, trying to form his next words, finally settling on “I… uh, yes, I guess I can see that.”

A smile curled on Sherlock’s lips. “What, did you think I sprang from my father’s brow, fully formed?”

“I never thought about your parents before. You never mentioned them. Oh God, are they… still alive?” John asked, tempering his laughter.

“Yes, don’t worry, my parents are enjoying a peaceful retirement in Hampshire.” Sherlock sighed. He knew exactly what John was thinking.

“What, just… retirement?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snatching a random fact from thin air. “My father keeps bees.”

John laughed again, and the sound made Sherlock feel unaccountably _happy_. He was so glad that John was laughing and not looking confused or hurt or anything of that kind. “They’re not, I don’t know, toppling governments somewhere? Master criminals, crazy scientists?”

“No, just… the bees,” Sherlock repeated, feeling a little put upon.

John seemed to not get enough of this topic. What was it that made personal subjects of such interest to him? He never asked, but Sherlock knew the look he got whenever something like this came up. Such as when he learned who Mycroft was (he’d sent Sherlock bemused looks for hours when they celebrated over Chinese food that night). When Sherlock accidentally revealed that he had once discovered a talent for medieval pottery (for a case), John couldn’t take away his eyes from Sherlock’s hands. He kept springing inane questions on him whenever he handled a piece of crockery (or gave him pointed looks when he broke another plate).

John did his wondering quietly; he would cock his head to the side, processing; he would part his lips slightly and frown, and then amusement often crossed his features as he filed away the knowledge in his little library of Sherlock Holmes facts.

“Ordinary folk, retirement in Hampshire, wow.”

“It’s a cross I have to bear,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, which made John snort. Sherlock smiled, and he noticed that he hated telling people things about himself, but for some reason he treasured it whenever he added another little puzzle piece to John’s library.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Okay, on re-watching The Six Thatchers I realized I missed the small detail that the ambassador in Tbilisi in the episode is actually a woman. Whoops. Forgive me for undoing the nice piece of equality by the BBC here...


	6. Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they meet Molly; also some revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay - I had to work a lot and my significant other is graduating tomorrow, so I helped with studying rather than indulging in writing. But from next week onwards I'll be on holiday and have loads more time to get on with it - I am really loving writing this story! Thank you for the lovely encouragement so far!

When they reached St. Bart’s, John was still in a pleasant mood. He knew it was distasteful to be cheerful after having just examined the corpse of what had been, by all accounts, a good man. But damn it if he wasn’t going to make the most out of having Sherlock back. Which reminded him sharply of an unresolved issue.

He held Sherlock back before he could leave the taxi. “Sherlock, wait a moment. Who else knows?”

Sherlock frowned. “Knows what?”

John gave him a look. “That you’re alive, you idiot,” he chided fondly. “Before we go in there… Molly?”

Sherlock sighed but got out of the taxi nonetheless. “Molly knows.”

John took a deep breath, following, waiting as Sherlock paid the driver. “Okay. I see.” He noticed that he was subconsciously straightening, bracing himself. The air was cold, and some of the morning’s sunshine was now hidden behind thick clouds. The taxi drove away.

“It would not have been possible without her. The fake body… after,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, I understand.”

They stood on the kerb for a moment, regarding each other. John drew his jacket closer around him and stuck his hands in his pockets to stay warm.

“John,” Sherlock said, and the sound of it gave John’s heart a little wrench. He didn’t want to think about it again, dammit.

“Let’s get off the road, come on,” he said wearily, making his way toward the fire escape at the side of the building without even thinking about it. He really didn’t know if Sherlock still cared whether the whole bloody hospital saw him, but he was sticking to the secrecy unless anyone told him otherwise.

Sherlock fiddled with the door, gave it a little tug and held out his arm in silent invitation. They moved inside, taking a barren corridor past the staircases, heading towards the morgue.

“Just… who else?” John said quietly.

Sherlock pressed his lips together a moment. “My parents. They were out of the way enough at the time, _unremarkable_ as you say… unconnected. If they’d really thought I was dead they… Well, they never would have forgiven Mycroft for one.” Sherlock swallowed and John looked up at him.

“Yes, I agree,” he said, with feeling. Sherlock glanced down and then quickly away again. But probably long enough to imagine the scene John had caused at Mycroft’s bloody club of silence a few days after the funeral. There had been a lot of resentment.

“That’s it, though,” Sherlock said. John could _feel_ him fidgeting as they walked down the hallway.

Just when John thought Sherlock was going to bloody apologize or explain again, and he couldn’t do that, not here in the _morgue_ , for crying out loud, John stopped him in his tracks. “Okay, but let’s be on the same page here. There’s people who saw you already, at home or… in the taxi just now… you were a bit famous not too long ago, somebody will have noticed.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Probably,” he admitted.

“So how are you going to deal with it?”

“Impromptu press conference?” Sherlock quipped and his lip quirked in a smile, looking exasperated. “I don’t know, John!”

John felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “So we’re winging it, then,” he clarified.

“Aren’t we always?” Sherlock said, and swept dramatically onwards, through the large double doors at the end of the hall.

 _Sounds about right_. All John could do, as usual, was follow his lead.

 

_____________________________

 

As soon as they rounded the next corner, they ran into Molly, as one could only run into her. She was flustered in the extreme, sweeping them both into clumsy but heartfelt hugs in turn. “Oh! Oh it’s so good that you’re not dead,” she blurted out, blushing as she clung to Sherlock for a moment. “I mean, I knew you weren’t _dead_ dead, but I thought you might get in trouble wherever you were and— um.“

John was surprised and touched to see that despite the blustering, Sherlock actually hugged her back. “Yes, well, um. I wasn’t gone _that_ long,” Sherlock drawled, trying to sound annoyed, yet patting her back lightly. Their eyes met over Molly’s shoulder for a fraction of a second and John got the distinct feeling that Sherlock was actually glad to see her, too.

She turned to John, sounding out of breath from the whole encounter already. “Oh, John, you too. I haven’t seen you since you broke your arm,” she glanced nervously up at Sherlock, then quickly down at John’s arm. “You’re okay now, though, so that’s good,” she rambled. John sighed.

Thankfully, Sherlock intervened. “Well, as much as I love reunions, Molly, we actually have a case,” he gave her a quick, manic grin and then steered her back around the corner. “Care to loan us your lab?”

“W-whatever you need,” she stammered.

Once they were settled in the lab, Sherlock went straight to work. He produced the satchels of fibres and dirt and whatever else he’d scraped off of poor Mr Blanchard and began mixing chemicals, sorting drops of various liquids onto glass plates and in petri dishes.

John found himself simply sitting to the side, Molly perched on a stool next to him, watching. At first, he wasn’t even thinking about it, he just _looked_ , watching the methodical movements for a while, letting them calm him. Only when he no longer noticed his breathing did he realise that he’d been worked up from the morning’s case and their conversation. Looking at Sherlock like this reminded him of the first time he met him, and there was something very reassuring in that.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes glanced up from the microscope, regarding them with a puzzled look. He looked back through the lenses and after a pause, he said, “ _honestly_.”

John felt Molly start, so she must have been in a contemplative state as well. She got up, suddenly remembering a stack of papers she’d probably been meaning to take somewhere. “Uh. Right, John, would you like coffee?” She sounded like someone in need of coffee herself, so John got up, content to let Sherlock work for a while. He should probably not stare at his friend quite so much.

He cleared his throat. “Sure, let me help you.”

Molly sent him a grateful smile and they went in search of the morgue’s tiny kitchen. Molly unceremoniously dumped her pile of papers on a counter and began busying herself with the coffee machine. “So! How have you been,” she began, trying to sound chipper.

John sighed. He was in no mood to go back to the strange tip-toeing they’d all been doing around him after Sherlock’s death. At least with Molly, he now understood why she had been so reserved and awkward around him.

“It gets to you, too, doesn’t it?” John said quietly, and her movement stilled. “Having him back?”

She turned, looking torn and uncomfortable. “I don’t really have him,” she muttered awkwardly.

“Nobody does,” he said.

Molly seemed to want to say something but caught herself. “You missed him a lot,” she finally said.

John smiled at her, feeling a bit bittersweet. “Yeah. Yes, I did.”

Molly suddenly melted in front of him. “Oh! Oh God, I really wanted to tell you, so much,” she began, wringing the packet of ground coffee in her hands. She put it down and gave him an imploring look. “I’m so sorry, John. I know how you feel, I mean felt, I mean… I know what you must have— oh!” she exclaimed again, and it nearly broke John’s heart all over again.

He got up slowly and hugged her.  It seemed like the right thing to do. “I know, hey, _stop it_ ,” he said, and finally, feeling a little pathetic, he added, “I forgive you, okay?” It wasn’t really his place to forgive anything, he wasn’t even mad at her, how could he? But it seemed to help. He laughed awkwardly, holding Molly’s arms, looking into her eyes.

“I felt so guilty,” she admitted. “And I saw you, and you—“ she shook her head. _God_ , John realised, he must have been such a mess. And _nobody_ had the gall to talk to him about it. The first person he’d poured his heart out to had been Mary.

“I’m glad you helped him, okay? It kept him safe,” he said, his voice becoming a bit clipped. “And that kept _me_ safe,” he added, taking a deep breath. “It meant a lot that you could do that for him.”

“I guess,” she sniffled.

“Hey,” he said kindly, rubbing her arms a little. “Come on. What would he say if he saw us two sentimental sobs, eh?” He noticed a faint tremor in his own voice now. _Jesus_.

A watery laugh bubbled from Molly’s lips. “Probably something rude,” she admitted.

“Exactly, so—” he patted her arm one last time before he stepped back again. She smiled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve before she went back to the comforting task of making coffee.

“So have you two… talked?” she asked.

John huffed a laugh. Then cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “I guess, yeah. We talked.”

“Good,” she said with firmer conviction than he expected.

 

_____________________________

 

They brought a coffee for Sherlock, too (black, two sugars), and he acknowledged it with a brief nod, before he went back to looking up things on his phone. Molly, being one of the unfortunate people who looked a total mess even after just a few tears, quickly excused herself after that, promising to see them soon. So John ended up standing next to Sherlock, watching him work.

Suddenly, John had the strangest feeling. He remembered Molly’s words, _I don’t really have him,_ and with unexpected embarrassment, John wondered if that had been meant for him. He thought of Sherlock lying next to him, holding his hand; his eyes strayed to the fine-boned fingers placing a slide under the microscope and warmth flooded his chest. If anyone could possibly _have_ Sherlock, perhaps John had gotten closer than anyone had before?

He felt sad for Molly at that thought and also a little concerned for himself. His thoughts were straying into dangerous territory there. He shouldn’t allow himself to think of Sherlock that way; it would only make things harder for him in the long run. He was happy that he was getting his life back, and he was relieved, so the confusing dreams of kissing Sherlock was probably just a… mental manifestation of his relief? Perhaps he was simply overcompensating for six months with only blackness by having an overabundance of affection now?

He thought back to all the times that he had to deny that they were a couple, and the many times he just couldn’t be bothered to any more. It wasn’t like Sherlock ever denied it – but that was simply because he didn’t care what people thought in general. Yes, Sherlock had actually come to stay in his bed in the night to fend off the nightmares, but that was all that was, right? Surely, a man who didn’t think much of social etiquette didn’t mean anything by that? Sherlock’s behaviour was unusual _at all times_ , so what he did may have just been his normal, every-day weirdness. And finally—

“You better stop before you sprain something,” Sherlock rumbled quietly, not lifting his eyes from his microscope.

“Hm?” John was blinking. He’d been staring, fixated on an errant curl resting on Sherlock’s nape. He quickly looked away.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

“Sorry,” John said and cleared his throat. “Getting anywhere with that?”

Sherlock paused a moment and then looked up. He turned around on his chair a little. “What were you and Molly crying about?”

 _Of course._ John sighed. “What do you think?” he asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock gave him a frustrated look. He studied John’s face a moment, then shook his head, looking confused. He hummed, making a bored noise in his throat, shoving the matter aside, and went back to his acid vials. And with a sudden jolt, John’s brain caught up with him and recognized that look on Sherlock’s face: he _really_ didn’t know. And he didn’t care enough to ask again.

John got a sinking feeling in his stomach. _Sentiment_. Sherlock knew Molly had been infatuated with him, but he probably didn’t think about it much. He thought love was a malfunction of the brain, of sorts; if John told him they’d cried over him because they _missed him_ , would he understand?

Surely, if Sherlock did not understand this… then how could he ever feel as John felt? Or understand how anyone could feel that way about him? _No_ , that was definitely an area that John had to steer clear off, if he wanted to keep one shred of his dignity intact. And his heart.

Finally, Sherlock held out a vial to him. “It’s them,” he said simply, his face unreadable.

“Our hospital assassins?”

Sherlock pointed to the various containers he had assembled in turn. “Fibre from a hospital bedsheet,” he began. “Traces of linoleum cleaned with a certain chemical they use to clean here; traces of disinfectant they use on the equipment. It’s them, as expected.”

He whipped out his phone and quickly sent a text, John assumed it was probably to inform Mycroft.

John shook his head, going over the facts in his mind. “But what the hell do I – _or Mary_ ,” he added with an exasperated glance at Sherlock, who’d been about to interject, “—have to do with Mr Blanchard? Or are they just catching up on some assassinations while they’re in town?” John still thought that it made most sense that someone wanted to murder him rather than Mary. However, there was something she wasn’t telling them. And the image of the red dot on her forehead kept cropping up despite his best wishes to bury it.

Sherlock’s lip quirked up. “It’s connected. There’s something—“ he broke off, studying  John intensely for a moment. “We will find out soon enough, I think,” he said, and got up to get his coat. “We’re done here.”

 

_____________________________

 

When the taxi got closer to 221B Baker Street, John was startled out of his reverie when he saw that there were people in front of their house. Reporters, at least half a dozen of them, accompanied by a few cameras and photographers.

“Stop,” he quickly snarled at the cabbie. “Stop the car. Wait.” He looked at Sherlock, who suddenly got busy texting. “Sherlock!” he chided, exasperated. “Did you see the… that _mob_? How are we getting home?”

Unhelpfully, the taxi driver turned in his seat. “Cat’s out of the bag now, it seems,” he chuckled. “Mind you, Dr Watson,” he winked at John, “you didn’t exactly keep a low profile, did you?”

“I hope they paid you well,” John bit out, and the taxi driver shrugged. He didn’t even care whether he was right or not. It didn’t even matter if Sherlock were discovered – the cabbie was right. It wasn’t like they’d really tried to hide him all that well. His temper flared. “Sherlock, who the hell are you _constantly texting_?!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and he glanced at John. His lips quirked up in a smile. “Mycroft,” he simply said. “I told him to turn on the TV.”

John stared at him. “For what?”

“Impromptu press conference,” Sherlock quipped and winked. John felt, once again, like he wanted to throttle him. “Get us to the door,” Sherlock told the cabbie, who obliged.

The reporters were immediately on the taxi, taking pictures, shouting questions. John closed his eyes a moment and sighed. His heart was beating faster and faster. A panic he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for was slowly building in him. He took a deep breath to steady himself, but it didn’t work. He noticed that Sherlock was watching him closely. “You’re not okay with this,” he noted.

John breathed once, twice. “No, it’s… I’m just—“ he waved a hand at the shouting throng of people.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I understand.” He thought a moment. “Very well. Follow me.”

Sherlock sounded serious. John looked at him, bewildered. “What?”

Before he could say any more, Sherlock had opened the cab door and stepped outside in one fluid movement. He held out his hands immediately, shouting over the voices. “Ladies, gentlemen, please! A moment,” he commanded, and they actually quieted down. John shifted over on the seat, getting ready to leave the car, but he also wanted to know what Sherlock was doing. “I’m afraid you’ve found me out,” he declared, magnanimously. “As you can see, there is a story here, and you’ll get the whole thing. But will you please let me and my good friend Dr Watson go inside first – we’ve been on a case today and need to go over some details first. I promise you, we’re just having a cup of tea, get ready, and in ten minutes I’ll be out of this door again, ready to answer all your questions.”

“Mr Holmes—“ people began shouting again, shoving microphones into his face.

“Ten minutes,” he said, and turned, paying the cabbie. A few of them persisted. John collected himself and exited the taxi, taking a breath of cold winter air. He drew himself up, weathering the onslaughts of “Dr Watson—!” around him.

“You heard the man,” he ordered in his best military voice. “Give us some space, _please_ ,” he said, his anger at the annoying press channelling into his command. It may have sounded like _please_ but what he really said was … _now, or else,_ and it worked. The throng stepped back, and Sherlock and John were able to quickly stride into 221B.

The door fell heavily into the lock behind them. For a moment, silence descended on them in the unlit hallway. John took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. After a moment, he saw that Sherlock was standing by the door, very still, almost like a statue in his heavy coat. John let his gaze fall to the ground again. He understood that Sherlock had retreated for his sake. He was always so bloody observant. Yet usually, he didn’t act on it this way. “I really hate the press,” John said to the floor. “Ever since they turned on you, back then.”

“I know,” Sherlock said.

“I told you they’d turn on you, and they did,” John continued. “And look at them now. Not so eager to condemn you this time, are they?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped closer. Unexpectedly, John’s heart did a little somersault and he looked up, startled. Sherlock looked at him, something vulnerable crossing his face. He lifted his hand, then stalled, as if he was unsure what to do with it. John tried to wrestle down the conflicting emotions. Was he still angry? Was that why his heart was trying to batter down the walls of his chest?

Sherlock finally placed his hand lightly on John’s shoulder. He searched his face. “You know I never cared what they wrote about me,” he said.

John nodded mutely.

“I still don’t care. But I’ll have to talk to them sooner or later…” his hand gave John’s shoulder a squeeze. “And I’d much rather do it on our terms than on theirs… or _Mycroft’s_ ,” he added.

John felt his anger slowly seep out of him, and his heart calmed down a bit. However, he was now even more aware of the lack of space between them. “And I’m not going out there without my blogger,” he said and smiled.

John’s heart responded enthusiastically once more. “Right,” he managed, trying to force himself to breathe normally.

“You’re still angry,” Sherlock said, uncertainty evident in his voice. He slowly let his hand drop.

John immediately raised his own and placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s arm, staying his movement. “No. Yes—I mean. No.” He swallowed. “Look. I know you didn’t plan this. But…” he sighed. “It’s just, they went after me next, okay?”

Sherlock frowned. “After I—“

“Yes. I was in the _tabloids_.” _My grief was in the tabloids._ “People tried to interview me, first after you jumped—and then after we cleared your name. I’m sure people thought I was trying to make money off of your death or something—“ he sighed. “And now… for once, it would have been nice to be in control of it, and I’m angry that we were so careless.” He felt better for having finally said it.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said and it sounded like he really meant it. “The case was all that mattered and I didn’t think they’d catch on so quickly.”

“I know I was only thinking of the case, too,” John sighed and let his head drop against the wall. Sherlock was smiling at him again, and from this angle he could almost imagine…

 _God no_ , he _really_ had to stop thinking like that. He noticed that Sherlock’s hand was on his arm again, and they were holding on to each other almost gently. Sherlock’s eyes searched his, his expression unreadable in the low light. John swallowed against a lump in his throat. He could just lean forward a little, tilt his head up… would it feel very different from kissing Mary?

His stomach gave a funny jolt when he realised that, in comparison, the build up to kissing her had felt almost like a program his body was running on autopilot. Nice and definitely not unpleasant; but _this_ …! This sent thrills of danger down his spine and wrenched his heart in his chest. It made him feel more alive than he had been for months, and it felt so bloody good that he wanted to laugh or cry or both. Most of all, he wanted to throw himself at the man in front of him, any previous conflicts about his sexuality forgotten, and lose himself in this feeling of just this irrational _wanting_.

And Sherlock wasn’t moving away; in fact, he seemed focussed and at ease. How could he be so observant, John mused, and be oblivious as to what was going through his mind right now? “Come on,” Sherlock said softly. “Let’s have that cup of tea. We can take our time and make them wait.”

He let go of John and turned to the stairs. At that moment it was probably for the best that he didn’t see John’s face as he stood there, staring at Sherlock’s back, hit squarely in the gut with the realisation that he was undeniably in love with his best friend.

 

_____________________________

 

Mycroft glanced at his mobile again. _You might want to turn on your TV. – SH_

He looked back at the TV. He’d flicked through every major channel, but there was nothing. He was expecting some kind or big-scale crisis, perhaps another assassination by their little team gone AWOL from the hospital. So far, nothing. Perhaps Sherlock was messing with him. He began typing.

_Bored so soon after I gave you the dead government official? Nothing interesting on the TV. – MH_

He muted the TV and went back to his papers. Roughly fifteen minutes later, his phone pinged at him again.

 _I am offended, brother_. – SH

Mycroft frowned. He looked back at his previous message. What the hell was Sherlock on about now? He put the phone down, rolling his eyes at it. He was not going to play cat and mouse with Sherlock again today, he simply didn’t have the time. So he refused to take the bait and ignored the telly.

Suddenly, there was a knock. Anthea poked her head through the door, giving him an apologetic smile. “Sir, I think you might want to see this.”

He frowned, but gave her a nod. Oh, it was one of those days.

Anthea snuck into the room and grabbed the remote to switch the channel. And suddenly, Mycroft understood. A news reporter was announcing that they were currently in contact with a source who had not only seen the _allegedly dead_ _super sleuth_ Sherlock Holmes, but that he had, in fact, promised them a small press statement in a few minutes’ time.

Mycroft glanced at Anthea, who was hovering helpfully by his side. “Should we stop him, sir?”

He sighed. “I don’t see how,” he said. “It’s not like just _telling_ him not to do something ever works; and we haven’t got time for our usual methods,” he said dejectedly.

At that moment, the reporter announced that things were definitely happening at Baker Street. It cut to a live feed. Mycroft saw about a dozen people crowding around the familiar door. And true enough, it opened a moment later to reveal Sherlock, dramatically sweeping onto the scene in his long coat and – _good Lord_ – wearing the goddamn hat. By his side, of course, was John, wearing a carefully neutral face but also somehow looking happy in an agitated way.

Mycroft didn’t pay attention to what Sherlock told the reporters. He was sure it didn’t matter in the slightest whether he told them the truth or not. He swivelled around in his chair, picked up a substantial stack of papers and files and dumped them unceremoniously in his bin. He swivelled back to find Anthea give him a pained smile. “I’ll shred those for you, shall I?” she said and grabbed the bin. As she left, Mycroft refocussed his attention; but it was less on Sherlock and more on Dr Watson.

He was standing protectively next to Sherlock, but not as close as he usually would have. He kept glancing everywhere but Sherlock, and when he had to answer questions posed to him, he was replying in a somewhat distracted manner. Mycroft stood up and walked closer to the TV now. A reporter turned to John again, asking whether or not he was happy to have Sherlock back at Baker Street.

And Dr Watson – the evidence was clear as day – actually _blushed_. “Couldn’t be happier,” he managed, and Mycroft let out a surprised chuckle. Well, wasn’t that a surprise? If Mycroft was a betting man, he’d have given the doctor weeks, if not months, to figure out exactly why he _couldn’t be happier_ at this point. Despite all the heartache and trouble, it was absolutely obvious how he felt about Sherlock. Mycroft was sure that one or the other tabloid might even pick up on that fact the next day.

But for now, he found himself uncharacteristically cheered by this development. He didn’t care that all his prep work had been for nothing. If John Watson was actually in love with Sherlock Holmes, then things in the world couldn’t be as bad as he always thought them to be. He turned back to his work. An hour later, when Anthea brought him another cup of tea and a progress report, he noticed he was still smiling faintly to himself. 


	7. Seeing is Believing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some mutual pining... and finally a new lead.

The next day, John took some time to simply process things. He was still not back at the clinic; he was supposed to recuperate for the rest of the week, and seeing as the previous day didn’t really qualify as ‘recuperating’, he decided to just stay in bed for a bit after he woke up.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he’d never seen it before. How he could have felt everything he felt and never _named_ it. It was so painfully obvious. Apparently, everybody else had seen it long ago, why else would people constantly assume he and Sherlock were a couple?

He predicted that ruminating on what he should do about this newfound attraction would only lead to depressing thoughts, so he decided to just accept the facts for now and worry about what would happen later; he forced himself to just lay back and enjoy the warmth in his chest when he thought of Sherlock. For now, that was magnificent enough to sustain him for a while. For now, the guilt and worry that must come eventually could go sod off.

A stray sunbeam found its way through the December clouds and into John’s bedroom. He dozed in it, content, for perhaps another hour or so, feeling his weariness ebb away, when suddenly frantic footsteps on the stairs woke him up fully.

His bedroom door banged open and revealed Sherlock Holmes, his dark blue dressing gown swirling around him. As an added bonus, he was wearing his lab goggles, protective gloves and his hair was in disarray. He looked entirely like the mad scientist that he was.

“John! I need your help,” he demanded without preamble. “If you remove someone’s gall bladder, could they, theoretically speaking, still—“ he paused in his speech. One gloved hand was raised to remove the goggles, and he blinked at John, who had turned on his side, leaning on his elbow, regarding Sherlock with a bemused and sleepy smile.

“Um,” Sherlock managed, taken aback. “You’re still in bed.”

“Yes,” John grinned. He decided the adorably confused look on Sherlock’s face was more than enough compensation for not mentioning the fact that he _never_ stated the obvious like that.

“Why?”

John let himself fall back onto the pillow and made a point of burrowing into his blanket. “Because I can. I’m still officially sick, we are not required to run around London right at this moment and so I thought I’d have a lie in. You should try it sometime.” He gave Sherlock a quick glance, remembering the other night, when he had simply crawled into bed with him.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, still staring at John. Then he mouthed a quiet “Oh,” and seemed to rally a little. He quickly mumbled a “sorry to have disturbed you, then,” and turned on his heel; unfortunately he was downstairs again before John could tell him how much Sherlock could disturb him at any time if he wanted.

He sighed and picked up his phone from the nightstand to check the time. It wasn’t _that_ late, he was relieved to find. He also saw that he had two missed calls and then a text message – from Mycroft, of all people.

 _I need to talk to Mary._  
_She won’t return my calls._  
_Give her a friendly_  
_reminder, please?_ _\- MH_  
Sent 07:56

John typed a quick reply.

 _You at the dentist’s again?  
_ Sent 10:15

 Moments later, his phone rang. John sighed and answered it, whilst slowly gathering some clothes for the day.

“John,” Mycroft greeted. “Finally amongst the living again?”

“I did have a concussion you know,” John grumbled.

“ _Quite_. Now. I need to talk to Mary again, about the incident,” Mycroft came to the point immediately. “She’s not returning my calls. Is she… there with you, by any chance?”

John felt a bit of anger bubbling up. “No, she’s not.”

“Ah.” It sounded as if Mycroft was deducing him over the phone. “Could you tell her I need to see her when you speak to her next?”

“I’m not Mary’s secretary,” John scoffed. “Why don’t you just send a car round to kidnap her? Or is that no longer your _thing_?”

“I tried that. She’s not at her flat and called in sick at work.” Mycroft evidently did not believe Mary was sick in the slightest. To be fair, she hadn’t seemed sick on Tuesday. “I thought you might be spoon-feeding her chicken soup,” he added derisively. “Or are the two of you no longer a _thing_?”

John let out an annoyed laugh. “Wow. Usually if you want to know what goes on in people’s bedrooms, you just go and find out without asking. Sherlock deduces that sort of thing. Can’t you?” Perhaps it was a low blow, but Mycroft was severely getting on his nerves. The day had begun so nicely.

“Believe me, Doctor, I do not _want_ to know these things. I _need_ to know. It’s my job.” John barked another disbelieving laugh at that. Mycroft sighed. “However much I enjoy bantering with you, Dr Watson, I do really need to find Miss Morstan.” Okay, so they were back to full names now, so perhaps it was a bit serious. “Please let me know it you hear anything from her.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with at this point.”

 _Predictable_. John sighed. “All right, have it your way.”

“Oh, and John,” Mycroft added, his voice softening a bit. Back to the personal, it seemed. “Sherlock, surprisingly, cannot always deduce _these things_ ,” he said slowly. “Just a friendly hint. Have a good day.”

Mycroft hung up.

John glowered at his phone. What the hell was that supposed to mean? These things? Perhaps Sherlock didn’t notice anything different yet and thought John was still dating Mary, okay, but what did that—

Oh. _Sherlock thought John was still dating Mary._ And of course Mycroft had figured it out – he always said he was better at deductions when it came to _sentiment_ , didn’t he? – and apparently he felt the need to point John in a very specific direction. John thought about Mycroft for a moment, imagining him like a great puppeteer, making them all dance to his whims.

And now Mary was in his web as well. He opened up the chat conversation with Mary and realised that this was the longest they hadn’t spoken or texted since they met. Usually, he saw her at work, and after they started dating they often had a chat during breaks, or, if she was working night shifts, they texted. Now, the last thing she’d written was that she would be a few minutes late to the art gallery because her taxi was stuck in traffic.

He sent her a quick message asking how she was and didn’t say anything about Mycroft. Let the meddling git find her; perhaps she didn’t want to be found? The thought made John frown. He hoped she was all right… but somehow, the thought that she managed to hide from _Mycroft_ was comforting. He sent her another text, ‘stay safe’, and then put the phone away.

John gathered his clothes and went downstairs, faintly noticing that Sherlock was engrossed at his – John’s – laptop. He smiled, shook his head and headed to the bathroom for a long, hot bath.

 

_____________________________

 

Sherlock stopped reading and looked towards the bathroom as soon as he heard the door lock and the water running. He let out a long breath and got up. He ran his hands through his hair, once, twice, and grunted in frustration. He walked to the couch and let himself collapse on it in a careless heap.

What a _mess_.

Everything was suddenly so much more complicated than before. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when things changed, but… if he was honest with himself, it must have started before the Fall. But that was just him. Right? Sherlock was sure that John… well, John felt things for him. Strongly. Passionately. But _like that_?

It seemed that his death really had changed things in Baker Street. John was unsettled at times, to the point of being constantly on edge. He still suffered from the whiplash of Sherlock’s sudden return, sure; but there was something else. Sherlock was pretty sure he knew what it was. Because he recognized it. He’d seen it in his eyes yesterday when he was leaning against the wall, down in the hallway, looking up; his dark blue eyes clinging to his so… desperately. It sent Sherlock’s mind reeling just to think about it.

He had been sure that something was going on with him; and he had finally spent some time last night going over everything that had accumulated in his mind palace. John’s grief. John’s heartfelt confessions about his death. John’s nightmares. John keeping his memory alive. John blushing. John smiling at him. John and Molly (of all people) crying, for some reason. _Still not sure about that one_. Was that just loyalty? Friendship? Or was it something more?

And then there was Sherlock himself. The warmth that flooded his chest when John said something kind or flattering. The way his thinking got clouded and confused whenever John was concerned. The fear he had felt when John was injured. The guilt he still felt over not telling him that he was alive, knowing how much it affected him. _Guilt_! Sherlock didn’t feel guilty about Mycroft and Lestrade digging him out of a drug den, or about Mrs Hudson cleaning up his mess or about insulting people or throwing them out – he was not accountable to them and he never forced anyone to take care of him. But John, somehow, was different. It only added to the growing pile of very worrying details in his mind.

This morning was the last proof he needed. John in bed, his hair tousled his voice sleepy and relaxed, his eyes blinking in the morning light. Once Sherlock’s eyes had caught up with his brain it sent everything screeching to a halt. His entire attention was suddenly focussed on how an errant wintery sunbeam hit John’s hair and how his hand rested on the duvet. He remembered holding that hand throughout the night. He remembered touching that face when they were in the hospital. His heart suddenly beat a mile a minute. His throat was dry.

The only thing he knew clearly was that he really, really wanted to climb into bed with John, wrap himself around him and just spend the rest of the day cataloguing every little thing about him, from his eyelashes to his lips, to his chest and stomach down to his legs— _hghndnn_. His eyes mentally travelling down John’s body under the covers sent certain images from his dreams back through his synapses and he needed to get out of there, absolutely, _that instant_. He mumbled something incoherent, turned on his heels and fled.

And now he was slouching on the sofa, mentally chastising himself for being so utterly distracted. When the hell had he started _ogling_ people, least of all his evidently straight flatmate? They were friends, of course, apparently _best_ friends; but Sherlock had never been interested in all the rest of it. Women, to start with, weren’t his thing; he’d found that out early enough. But most men he’d met were so unaccountably _dull_ that even if they were _attractive_ enough, Sherlock didn’t feel _attracted_ at all. He had tried some experiments (Victor in the garden shed had probably been the most successful and even somewhat pleasurable), but it didn’t hold his interest for long. The Work was everything; nothing else could compare.

The problem was, Sherlock thought, that John was not at all dull. From the first moment he met him, Sherlock knew that he was probably the only flatmate he would endeavour to keep. Everything about him seemed completely ordinary and unassuming at first glance, but Sherlock made an effort to look twice and almost wished he hadn’t. Because everything that _wasn’t_ dull about John was suddenly making his brain spin and his heart ache with annoying demands of closeness and intimacy.

It was distracting and terrible and at the same time, strangely wonderful.

God, what a mess. Sherlock threw an arm over his eyes and groaned, trying not to think about John in the bathtub.

 

_____________________________

 

When John returned to the sitting room, dressed, holding a cup of tea and the paper, Sherlock was still at his laptop, completely immersed. He looked like he hadn’t even moved, except that he was also using his own laptop to run some sort of analysis or search.

“What are you up to?” he asked and leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the screens. He noticed that Sherlock stiffened, and John immediately scolded himself. He had to really keep himself in check a bit more, or he would end up making Sherlock constantly uncomfortable. He retreated a little.

“Searching for cross-referencing keywords in the communication logs of MI5,” Sherlock nodded at his own laptop. “And some more research on my experiment. Did you know that when you remove someone’s gall bladder, they can no longer—“

“Hang on, what?” John interrupted him with a short laugh. “ _MI5_? Aren’t those, I don’t know, encrypted or something?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, his face mildly curious and one eyebrow raised. “So?”

John laughed again. “All right then. Found anything yet?”

“No.”

“Carry on, then,” John said casually, shaking his head and settling down in his chair to read. _Hacking into MI5 – just another day with Sherlock Holmes_ , he thought, and contentedly sipped his tea.

 

_____________________________

 

A little later, John put the paper aside and carried his mug to the sink. When he returned, he stood in the kitchen door for a bit, watching Sherlock. He wondered whether he shouldn’t just ask him to tell him, but…

“Sherlock?”

The typing paused and Sherlock looked up from his laptops and phone. “Hmm?”

“About Mary…,” John began slowly, and he saw that he immediately had Sherlock’s attention by something snapping into focus in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, so John continued.

“Mycroft was trying to get in touch with her. Apparently she’s called in sick at the clinic and he did not find her at home.”

“Good for her,” Sherlock smirked a little.

“I agree, except I don’t know where she is, either,” John continued and Sherlock frowned. “I texted her this morning and again just now, but she’s not replying.”

Sherlock’s face was becoming more and more grim. “Perhaps her phone ran out of battery?” he suggested calmly.

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock got up and stood to lean against the desk. “Well then. When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“Tuesday,” John said. “After the art gallery we went to a pub and then she just went home,” he explained. He noticed Sherlock’s eyes narrowing at him.

“I take it it’s unusual for you to be out of touch with her for two days?” Sherlock asked.

John shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Wouldn’t this be a perfect chance to tell him about the break-up? He fidgeted. Why was it so hard? _We no longer text as much because_ _I broke up with Mary_. No, that wasn’t right. _Mary broke up with me because… we didn’t have that spark when we kissed? Because she could secretly probably tell I was into you, instead? Because I’d rather kiss you than her—oh for fuck’s sake, John._

“Uh… we used to text fairly regularly, I guess,” John said slowly, feeling a blush creep onto his cheeks. Sherlock’s narrowed eyes immediately took in his discomfort and probably every detail of his skin. He wondered what Sherlock made of his reaction. This was not going to be easy. He went back to sit in his chair and avoided Sherlock’s eyes for the moment.

“Look, Sherlock,” he began. “You know something about her; something I bet was mentioned in that folder she got from Mycroft after the hospital. You… insinuated that on Saturday _she_ was the actual target, not me.”

Sherlock was quiet, but he looked like he was quickly running through his options in his mind.

“Just tell me one thing,” John said quietly to help him out. Break-up or no break-up, he needed to know if she was all right. “Do you think something has happened to her?”

Sherlock walked to his chair and sat down, watching John. “No,” he said.

The certainty in Sherlock’s voice was clear as day. “Why not?”

“Because if she was dead, she would have turned up by now. Your would-be assassins wanted to make a statement. Why else try to kill her on her date, in public? He could have shot her in her sleep if he wanted. So… as long as she’s nowhere to be found, she’s probably safe.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” John allowed. “So… do you think that, whatever it is, she can handle it? Or do you need to tell me what’s going on so we can go after her?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “She has managed to evade Mycroft. If he wants to find you, he usually does. So I’d say if he cannot locate her, neither can her assassins. I think… she can handle herself.”

“Good,” John said. He felt secure knowing that he really trusted Sherlock’s take on the situation, even blindly. Additionally, if Mary needed their help, she knew she basically had a soldier and a detective on call. She would have asked. “Then don’t tell me,” he added.

 

_____________________________

 

John had some lunch a little later and made sure to place a plate of toast with jam surreptitiously beside Sherlock on the desk. He grinned when he saw that he slowly but surely devoured the slices without even looking at them. John managed to actually steal his laptop from him at some point and settled on his chair with it. He’d thought about this throughout the morning and had an idea what he wanted to write. He slowly began typing out a first draft of the account of Sherlock’s return. He detailed the attempted assassination and carefully reconstructed the evening from what he had learned from Sherlock and Mary’s comments. He paused a few times, unsure how to phrase his own reactions. He didn’t want to sound too sappy and when he read through what he had written, he felt he needed to delete a few lines because he was being too obvious. He didn’t want Harry or Stamford to make even more suggestive comments under his post.

While he was writing, he noticed that Sherlock was becoming more and more agitated. He paced for a while, then began haphazardly pinning post-its and notes to the wall, creating a tableau of what they knew about the assassinations so far. He stared at it for long stretches of time, then went back to his phone. He went into his bedroom to make a couple of calls, and by the end of about an hour of this, John couldn’t concentrate on his draft any longer.

Finally, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and stood in front of John. His eyes flashed and he bore a triumphant grin. “We’ve got something,” he declared, before he sat down, steepling his fingers in front of his chin.

“Oh thank God!” John closed the laptop and put it aside. “I’ve been watching you and I am dying of curiosity.” Sherlock grinned at that, a wonderfully genuine, amused look. John felt a happy jolt go through his chest. He quickly got up. “Tea?”

“I’d love some,” Sherlock said. So John put the kettle on and Sherlock began to recount his research he’d done all day. Apparently he’d been busy hacking into the communication logs from Mycroft’s office, an offense he seemed to be absolutely delighted about, of course. He followed each trail throughout MI5, trying to pinpoint any associations with Mr Blanchard, mentions of the security tapes or of the Tbilisi mission.

“I finally found a trail of clues,” Sherlock continued as he sipped his tea. “A code word kept creeping up throughout certain files and authorization orders. _Amo_ ,” he said cryptically.

“Ammo?” John asked. “What, like munition? Weapons exports or something?”

“No,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “Not ammunition. A-m-o. _Amo_ is Latin for ‘I love’.”

“Okay…?” John offered, waiting to be enlightened, as usual.

“Have you ever heard of Lady Elizabeth Smallwood?”

“Nope.”

“She’s an ordinary MP,” Sherlock explained. “But behind the scenes, she carries about as much weight as Mycroft does, except that she’s an elected official. She has a lot of influence and knows a lot of people. Her security clearance is of the highest level, like Mycroft’s, and she operates under a codename: _Love_.”

John stared at him. “Wow, that’s a silly codename,” he observed. “What’s Mycroft’s?”

Sherlock looked a bit surprised. “Do you know, I actually never found out. Perhaps he doesn’t have one,” he mused, and John snorted.

“So you think this Lady Smallwood had something to do with hiring the assassins? Wouldn’t Mycroft have picked up on that?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “I think she was the one who ordered the extraction mission in Tbilisi. That doesn’t mean she sabotaged it as well.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“ _We_ are going to a ball,” Sherlock announced, fixing John with a surprisingly predatory grin.

“We are?” John laughed nervously.

“Yes. Tomorrow night, there is a fundraiser at MI5. Well, they call it a fundraiser but it’s just an excuse for the usual crowd to hang out and enjoy fine wines and dancing. Very small crowd, the high and mighty and _rich_. I’ve just got us on the guest list,” Sherlock announced, as if he’d simply booked tickets to the theatre.

“Oh God,” John said and rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. And what are we going to be doing at a fundraiser?”

“Investigating, of course,” Sherlock said with a flash of determination in his eyes. That was the last John got out of him on the subject.

 

_____________________________

 

The next day, John was still a little dismayed to have gotten no reply from Mary. Mycroft hadn’t called again either, so perhaps he had found her. Or perhaps he knew there was nothing else to find out from John. Either way, there was not much John could do.

He went shopping for groceries, enjoying the brief walk, and when he returned, he found a large garment bag hanging on the sitting room door.

“Ah! Good, you’re back,” Sherlock said as John put away the food and milk. “You should try this on.”

“What’s in it?” John asked, eying the bag speculatively.

Sherlock handed it to him. “The fundraiser is _cravate noire_ , of course,” he explained, and when he spotted John’s clueless look, he added with an eye roll, “black tie, John.”

John opened the zip and saw black fabric. He gaped at Sherlock. “You bought a dinner jacket?”

“I bought you an entire suit. You wouldn’t have matching trousers. Your black shoes will do, however.” His voice was unaffected and casual. John swallowed.

“How much did it cost?”

Sherlock turned and waved that away. “Oh, don’t worry, I went to Mycroft’s tailor and put it on his bill. It’s his investigation, so it makes sense for him to outfit you as required.” His smirk spoke volumes.

John followed him through to the sitting room, shaking his head in disbelief. “You went to a tailor. To get me a tailored suit. Without me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, I know your measurements. But you should try it on just in case the man’s an idiot. And it was a bit short notice.”

John’s eyes went wide and he simply stared at Sherlock, who stood there looking like this was a regular occurrence. “You know my… _measurements_?” John felt a severe blush creeping up his cheeks, his heart doing a little backflip when his mind trailed over every single implication this produced.

Sherlock gave him a _look_ , and John suddenly desperately needed to leave the room. “Right. Never mind. I’ll just go and try this on, then,” he said quickly and hastened upstairs to his room.

As he undressed and unpacked the suit, a memory came suddenly to his mind, something that seemed ages ago. Irene Adler, wrapped in nothing but Sherlock’s coat, escaping through a back window in her house.

_He did know where to look. The key code to my safe… My measurements._

So Sherlock had been... _looking_ at him? Enough to catalogue his size and everything? Did that mean something? Or was it just the normal Sherlock x-ray he turned on everyone?

John suddenly felt like he was completely transparent. Of course, how could he not be? He was, to begin with, not a good liar nor was he good at acting or pretending. He was straightforward and honest, and he prided himself on it. But in addition, he was living with Sherlock Holmes, the most observant person on the planet. John swallowed and sat down for a moment, half dressed in a shirt and trousers, holding the bow tie in his hands. Oh God, Sherlock could probably deduce his feelings towards him by one glance.

On the other hand, Sherlock wasn’t good with feelings and relationships; he never did seem to really _get_ that Irene Adler had basically wanted to shag him. He was a little obsessed with her at the time, but whenever it came to flirting, he looked mildly puzzled or, at best, disinterested. It was hard to tell, with Sherlock. John had been wildly jealous at the time, he realised during Sherlock’s… absence. That was when he was first starting to be honest about his feelings for him, mourning the fact that it was too late. And now? Was it even an option?

He finished putting on the suit and as he buttoned the dinner jacket, he regarded himself in the mirror. The shirt, trousers, vest and dinner jacket fit like a dream. He had never owned tailored clothing before, and he realised that Sherlock probably wore nothing but that sort of stuff. No wonder he always looked like a sculpture.

He admitted that he scrubbed up fairly nicely, all things considered. Suits just kind of worked on him, and he was suddenly very glad he was spared the annoying job of having to go out and buy one. The only suit he owned before this was one he’d worn to court dates and the like. This was certainly an improvement. Now he only had to act like he _belonged_ in something so posh and expensive, like Sherlock did. That was the real challenge.

 

_____________________________

 

John returned downstairs in his normal clothes, deciding the showing off could wait. He simply informed Sherlock that the suit fit perfectly, which the detective acknowledged with a small smirk and a nod. The rest of the day, John spent reading some of the print-outs Sherlock pushed his way; information on Lady Smallwood and several other high-ranking officials that John immediately shredded once he read them. He felt cold sweat running down his back when he thought about what might be in store for them if people found that sort of classified material in their drawers. Sherlock only laughed and called him paranoid.

In the early evening, John got ready for the ball. He had put on the immaculate suit and his smart shoes and smoothed his hair a little. He was now standing in the sitting room, fidgeting with his bow tie until it sat somewhat straight on his buttoned up collar. He was feeling a little claustrophobic and had the urge to open the top button, but thankfully the shirt fit so well that he could get used to it. He gave himself a once over and a stern nod of approval in the mirror. There was just one thing missing.

“Sherlock?” he called in the direction of the other bedroom. “Do you have some cufflinks? I only wear buttoned shirts usually.”

For a moment there was no response. Then, the bedroom door opened and Sherlock walked out. Or rather, _strolled_ out with the confidence of a man used to – and immensely enjoying – this sort of getup. John felt his jaw fall open ever so slightly. The suit fit Sherlock like a glove. Every angle of his slim contours were accentuated just the right amount. The jacket hugged his waist almost obscenely well. His long neck was framed by his collar in a way that looked casual, in stark comparison to John’s slight discomfort. His curls were neater than usual, and so arranged that one lock fell artfully into his forehead. Sherlock was gazing down and pulling his cuffs down straight. John quickly closed his mouth with a snap but found it difficult to tear his eyes away. Oh man, was he in trouble _._

Sherlock looked up, and immediately did an almost imperceptible double-take. John felt a smile creep onto his face when he saw the dawning surprise on Sherlock’s face. He blinked once, twice, and pulled down his sleeves again unnecessarily, his eyes giving John a quick once over.

“Well, what do you think?” John asked, feeling bold.

Sherlock’s eyes met his and he smiled slowly. “Not bad, Doctor.” Did Sherlock make that sound so suggestive on purpose? Or was that just his voice?

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he managed and licked his lips before he could stop himself. God, could he be any more obvious? “Thank you again, the suit is… really something.”

“It fits well. The tailor is not such an idiot after all,” was all Sherlock said to that, but John thought that Sherlock looked away a bit too quickly. He nodded at his still unbuttoned sleeves. “You need cufflinks.”

“If you have any to spare, I’d be much obliged.”

Sherlock went back to his bedroom and returned with some plain black cufflinks and four matching studs. At John’s questioning look, he just shrugged. “They come in sets. I get lots of useless Christmas gifts from various relatives.”

He handed John the studs. “You know how to…?”

“Um,” John hesitated, glancing at his buttoned up shirt, then at Sherlock’s. He had dark shining studs inserted in his buttonholes. John began opening his shirt buttons a little self-consciously. “You’re probably going to have to redo your bow-tie,” Sherlock said quietly. He was standing a bit closer than usual, his hands lifted half way, ready to help.

“Right. Sure,” John said, trying not to sound too nervous. He felt like a bumbling idiot, not even knowing how to properly put on a bloody dinner suit; and here was Mr Suit God himself, having to teach him. He resolutely turned to the mirror, trying not to be distracted by Sherlock’s stare, and undid his bow-tie, letting the ends hang down. He opened the buttons and began inserting the first stud. He got the hang of that easily enough, so there was no need for Sherlock to interfere.

However, when he reached for the cufflinks, Sherlock held them back. “Here, let me. It’s a bit difficult to do yourself.”

John swallowed and held out his wrist. “You managed all right,” he observed.

“Yes, but I’ve been made to wear black tie for every other family event since I was twelve. I’ve had more practise than you.”

John chuckled. “Not sure I envy you.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock rolled his eyes in an overly exaggerated manner. “Tedious, most of it.” He began slowly threading in the cufflink through the buttonholes. Their hands brushed and John tried very hard to concentrate on something over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“When wasn’t it tedious?” he asked, to distract himself.

“Hm?” Sherlock looked up from his wrist and he was still too close for comfort. John could count his lashes if he wanted to.

“You said most of it. Some of it must have been… _fun_?” He quickly pulled his hand back and held out his other arm for Sherlock, who regarded him thoughtfully. He briefly pressed his lips together, swallowed once and went to fidget with John’s other wrist.

“Oh, I guess… it was bearable when Cousin Penelope was attending.”

John snorted a bit. “ _Penelope_ , really?” Sherlock looked up from under his deliriously long lashes and gave him a small, amused smile. “That’s nothing. I haven’t told you about dear aunt _Ophelia_ yet, have I?”

“Wow,” John chuckled, meeting his gaze. “You wouldn’t believe how many Johns, Jacks and Davids we have in our family.”

“At least we always know who we are talking about,” Sherlock allowed, and John grinned. ”True. I got pretty sick of ‘ _our John or Belinda’s John?_ ’ every time my mother gossiped over the phone with people.” He made a faint imitation of his mother’s voice and Sherlock grinned. He finished buttoning John’s cuffs, but was still fidgeting with the fabric, straightening it a little.

“So… cousin Penelope?” John asked. He was always onto it when Sherlock was ready to actually divulge something of himself or his past and was all ears.

Sherlock looked up and they locked eyes for a moment. Sherlock’s gaze then dropped to his throat. He slowly buttoned up John’s top button again and John’s breath deserted him somewhere along his throat. He blinked, not knowing on what to focus; Sherlock’s soft curl right in front of him, the pale blue eyes, the elegant slope of his nose, his sharp cheekbones, the ridiculous Cupid ’s bow… He wondered how it would feel to kiss him, and was reminded of his recurring dreams lately. He blinked, trying to look anywhere but his face, a blush rising in his cheeks again. He finally stared at Sherlock’s lapel, ready to count the bloody threads in the silk if that’s what it took to get his mind out of dangerous territory.

“Cousin Penny was the only person worth talking to.” Sherlock deftly grabbed the ends of John’s bow-tie next and began tying it. John didn’t trust himself to say anything about it, fearing his voice might not serve him at that moment. He felt Sherlock’s fingers brush his neck and felt Sherlock’s breath on his skin as he spoke. “She had an overbearing mother who wanted nothing else but to see her favourably married. At some point, even I was considered a possible candidate.” He scoffed at that, rolling his eyes. “Being forced upon each other’s company, I quickly discovered that Penny was… otherwise interested. In fact, she was carrying on an affair with our housekeeper’s daughter at the time.”

Sherlock’s eyes quickly jumped to John’s and then back to his bow-tie. He was certainly taking his time with it, John thought; for the first time he began paying more attention to Sherlock than his own raging hormones and he noticed that Sherlock seemed… nervous? His voice was steady, but he appeared to be debating with himself how much of the story to tell.

Finally, he continued, straightening the tie. “So. We got drunk together at every family gathering, commiserating. She was a good friend, for a time. Unfortunately she finally did get married to a lovely country doctor and last I heard she and her wife moved to New Zealand.” He stopped to regard John once again, and brushed some dust off his shoulder. “There, you’re perfect. Shall we?”

And he turned to get their coats, John standing there gaping. _Commiserating_? Did he mean…? John could hardly ask, could he? _So you mean, you were in the same situation?_ Had he imagined Sherlock’s look, Sherlock’s inflection when he said it? Of course, John still remembered his words at Angelo’s. _Girlfriend? No, not really my area._ But he had also made it very clear that he was not interested in that sort of thing in general. The only thing that counted was The Work. Perhaps back when he was younger and getting drunk with Penny, these things still interested him? _Commiserating_  sounded like he must have spared it some thoughts. It sounded like Sherlock cared a lot, back then. But now? Perhaps he was reading way too much into it. He blinked stupidly and put on his jacket, following Sherlock down the stairs.

And then, finally, the other thing Sherlock said popped back into John’s mind, and he found himself smiling the entire taxi ride to the fundraiser. _You’re perfect._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am slowly getting to the meat of the story - I hope it's not too boring so far! Let me know if you have any helpful advice :-)


	8. Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ball, dancing, flirting, and breaking into an MI5 office. All in a day's work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay - I was on holiday! I spent quite a lot of time on this chapter so it turned out twice the length I normally do, so I hope that makes up for it :-) Let me know what you think!

Sherlock’s prediction about the ‘usual crowd’ had been correct. As they walked up to the door of Thames House, he already spotted a few people he knew here and there making their way from assorted expensive cars and taxis. Sherlock recognized members of Mycroft’s inner circle, a few less known members of the royal family here and there. He glanced at John, who seemed impressed by the splendour, but didn’t recognize anyone. That was the point, of course; the people collected here weren’t exactly TV stars. He steered John a little with a hand on the small of his back and whispered, “don’t stare. We belong here. I’ve protected some of these people’s reputations twice over and you’re my famous blogger, so try to stay in character.”

“I’ll try but… I’m feeling a little self-conscious, to be honest.” He gave him a little nervous smile. Sherlock relished the fact that he didn’t flinch away from his touch. Ever since he’d used the excuse of helping John with his stupid cufflinks he was looking for further openings to be close or touch him. It was ridiculous in the extreme, and nothing if not a little too obvious, but Sherlock had a hard time stopping himself when John didn’t even seem to mind.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock murmured back. “Just pretend it’s a military function and you’re the person who saved everyone’s lives on the battlefield.”

“Don’t have to pretend much, then,” John mumbled under his breath and Sherlock gave him a quick smile. He’d counted on that reaction, and it worked; John immediately assumed a straighter posture and held himself with that kind of quiet dignity Sherlock found so fascinating. He straightened as well and left his hand hovering over John’s back, feeling suddenly smug – surely nobody else here had such a dashing and loyal companion by his side. Sherlock felt honoured that John had stayed with him after the ordeal of his Fall. He didn’t really know how to put that in words, how to tell John that, but it was true and made his head go haywire when he thought too much about it.

They managed to get into Thames House without trouble, their names having correctly been added to the guest list. Past the large stony gates of the huge building, they entered a fancy foyer filled with bar tables. The entrance hall of the Secret Service headquarters had been transformed into a reception area, and waiters were mingling between the small groups, handing out drinks. Everything was decked out in tasteful Christmas decorations, with golden and silver candle holders and the occasional holly twig. In the background, faint classical Christmas music was playing.

John let Sherlock take the lead, looking at everything with wide eyes. Sherlock had to smile; he never particularly noticed how posh his upbringing had been or in what kind of circles he and his brother moved with such an every-day manner. But sometimes it helped to see things through John’s eyes to bring them into perspective.

He spotted the person he was looking for in the crowd and gave him a subtle sign with his hand. On the way, he politely nodded at faint acquaintances as well as perfect strangers when they looked at him with recognition in their eyes. Several small groups of people actually began whispering excitedly when they passed. John noticed it too. “Yep, still famous,” he said to Sherlock in an undertone as another woman leaned over to her husband, no doubt explaining who they were. “It’s going to be hard to keep a low profile like this.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “I’m sure there’s bigger fish here than us.”

“Are you sure? I bet none of them came back from the dead just the other day.”

Sherlock gave him a lazy chuckle. “True.” They reached the side of the room and Sherlock picked one of the tables to stand by. A man in a waiter’s uniform appeared at their elbows immediately. “Champagne?”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Sherlock said happily, and as he handed John a glass, he murmured in a low voice, “John – Ricardo. One of Mycroft’s.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr Watson,” Ricardo murmured whilst rearranging the glasses on his tray. “Is there anything else I can get you, sirs?” he added loudly.

“No thank you, that’s quite all right,” Sherlock answered in the same voice and immediately turned away, as to not show familiarity. He suspected that Mycroft was doing his own reconnaissance as usual on functions of this kind. Ricardo was probably there to work for more than one reason. He left to do his rounds and Sherlock quickly slipped the small key card Ricardo had passed him into his pocket. He toasted John and they had a sip of their drinks. “We’ll have to wait until after dinner. During the dancing it will be much easier to slip away.”

“Dancing?” John’s eyebrows rose.

“Pity.” Sherlock sent an appreciative glance towards John. “We won’t have the chance to join in.”

John’s eyes found his. “What, you mean…?” He gestured a little between them, looking thoroughly amused.

Sherlock smirked at him. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I know for a fact that you can dance.”

John laughed. “Is that so? And pray, how do you know that?”

Sherlock gave him a look. “Now that would be telling. You already spill too many of my secrets in your blog. Can’t ruin all the mysteries. Also, I imagine you’re quite good at it, too.”

“What, at spilling your secrets?” John’s eyes danced with laughter now and Sherlock was beginning to really enjoy himself.

“No, at dancing,” he said nonchalantly.

John quickly took another sip of his drink. “Is that the kind of thing you imagine,” he said into his glass, his voice dropping lower. Sherlock felt a pleasant jolt to his chest as he regarded his friend, who looked up at him through his lashes. Oh, this was going to be an interesting evening.

 

_____________________________

 

Over the course of the next half hour, they found themselves accosted by several people who came to personally shake Sherlock’s hand or exchange a few pleasantries, inquiring about his extraordinary return and the like. Presently, a petite, quite striking looking young woman in very simple, expensive dress joined them on their way to the banquet room. She was attached to the arm of a very bored looking man who ignored their conversation for the most part.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she drawled in a posh accent. “I don’t believe it. And _plus one_ ,” she added with a delighted nod to John. “Absolutely charming to see you both. I never thanked you personally for helping out with my… _case_ last year. Although my uncle tells me it turned into rather a state affair after all. So _exciting_!” Everything she said sounded as if it was the most scandalous piece of gossip she had ever heard. She laughed a clear, surprisingly unaffected laugh and then leaned into their space in a conspiratorial manner, raking her eyes over both Sherlock and John. “You know, I think it’s amazing what you both do. And you give the _community_ a really good face. I know some people who are _dying_ to meet you. You’re their heroes!” She laughed again. “Although I’d finally make it public, if I were you. Show some _confidence_. Oh, and if the two of you are ever looking for,” she winked, “a bit of fun, you know how to reach me.” She brushed her hand over John’s arm, lingering. “Merry Christmas,” she breathed and blew kisses at them both before she dragged her unwilling date back through the crowd.

John gaped at the woman, whose dress revealed the bare expanse of her back, and blinked in confusion. “What the hell…?”

Sherlock laughed, but felt a stab of possessiveness as well after the woman had basically groped John like that. He positioned himself almost without noticing it a bit closer to John, stepping into his personal space. “Remember the case we originally took when we met Irene Adler?” he kept his voice low, murmuring into John’s ear as the crowd grew thicker around them, streaming towards the banquet. This close to John he could smell his aftershave. “The pictures on her phone?” he added.

John’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh…!” he mouthed and he turned his head to Sherlock with a surprised smile. “That was _her_?” He laughed a little, and Sherlock could see the laugh lines beside his eyes, revelled in the mirth he saw in the dark blue irises, drinking it in. He smiled back and nodded briefly. “Looks a bit different with clothes on, doesn’t she?”

John snorted another laugh and looked around a bit nervously, but nobody was paying them any attention for the moment. “Well, she’s not actually wearing that much,” he said under his breath and now it was Sherlock’s turn to stifle a laugh. Their eyes met, and Sherlock allowed himself a breathless second to enjoy that John was looking at him that way again. Suddenly, John’s smile faltered a little bit; for a mere fraction of a moment, his eyes dropped to Sherlock’s lips. That little movement was enough to send Sherlock’s heart into a stumble as the air between them seemed to change and thicken. He blinked quickly and took a breath as he moved away a bit. John caught himself as well and lowered his arm, which had inexplicably found its way onto Sherlock’s at some point. He hadn’t even noticed.

They both looked away and Sherlock quickly suggested following the crowd in to dinner before either of them felt the need to say anything else. It wasn’t until later that he realised that they had just been addressed as a couple again, and neither of them had denied it.

 

_____________________________

 

At dinner, John and Sherlock luckily found themselves seated with a few actually interesting members of the higher echelons of society. John was absorbed by a debate about something military-related with the older man next to him; Sherlock didn’t really follow it. In turn, he made a conceited effort to be pleasant to the rest of the people at the table. He talked to the two elderly ladies about some of his cases, easily deducing exactly what kind of story they were hoping to hear. He graciously accepted their fawning compliments, but after a while, he made the excuse of finding the toilets to get away from them. He spent some time exploring the corridors around the bathrooms. Ostentatiously, he was simply standing there with his phone, typing away, but surreptitiously he took note of where the emergency exits were, where people went for smokes, how the security teams behaved. Ricardo passed him a few times. Suddenly, his phone rang. Sherlock sighed and briefly considered simply ignoring it, but he thought perhaps a little goodwill tonight might help.

“Mycroft,” he greeted.

“Not getting into trouble, are we?” Mycroft drawled, getting straight to the point. “Let me guess: you felt the charitable spirit of Christmas and decided to attend just any random fundraising event you could find at short notice?”

“You know me so well, brother,” Sherlock smirked as he wandered slowly back towards the banquet hall.

“Good, because I never know what you’re up to until after the fact so I have to learn to make accurate predictions if I want to watch your back.”

“Your compassion is touching.”

“Seriously, Sherlock, I would appreciate a little heads-up next time. We are working on the same case, are we not?”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Sherlock soothed while rolling his eyes. “I just didn’t want your goons to ruin my work.”

“My goons did a pretty good job protecting you back in Serbia, I might add.”

“Not all the time,” Sherlock murmured and he heard Mycroft sigh. “Anyway, this isn’t Serbia, this is Thames House. I am quite capable to look after myself and besides, I have John with me.”

“Ah yes, I saw the order for the suit. The surveillance is a bit too grainy to see but I trust it fits?”

“Perfectly,” Sherlock said quickly. He didn’t really want to discuss John. He had a feeling Mycroft had seen or guessed too much already and had way too many things to say on the subject. He didn’t respond, but Sherlock thought he could hear him grin on the other side of the call.

“Was there anything you wanted?” Sherlock asked, scanning the room. People were beginning to get up here and there; dinner was clearly over now. Someone got on stage and began the first address of the evening, eliciting laughs and pleasant clapping.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I was going to come over or call you tomorrow, but I might as well get it over with. My office was broken into last night.”

Sherlock gave a low whistle. “Whoever it was, hire them.”

Mycroft’s laugh was without humour. “I just might,” he said. “There was not a hair out of place, no forced entry, no prints, of course… and only one thing was missing. Mary’s file.”

Sherlock grinned. “She wants her identity safe, but she also didn’t bother to disguise it was her.”

“No,” Mycroft said, sounding annoyed. “I would love to talk to her about it, but she has practically vanished.”

“Yes, John mentioned it.”

Once again, Mycroft seemed to pause for a moment. “He hasn’t heard from her, then?”

“No,” Sherlock said. He felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. John hadn’t so much as mentioned Mary all day, and he knew that if she’d suddenly contacted him, he would have said something. It was strange – in the past, John had behaved differently with his girlfriends. Added to that there was John’s odd behaviour in general, and then that moment earlier… No, Sherlock decided, he must have imagined it.

“I see,” Mycroft said, and seemed to be saying much more. As usual.

“Is that all? I have a fundraiser to attend.”

“That’s all,” Mycroft huffed. “Enjoy the party.”

Sherlock hung up unceremoniously and stuffed the phone into his trouser pocket. _Interfering git_ , he thought.

He wandered back towards their table and found John still engaged in conversation. The elderly military gentleman was droning on about something, having apparently since long turned the whole thing into more of a monologue. From the sound of it, and from John’s pleading look, Sherlock guessed that a rescue would be appreciated. He smoothly appeared at John’s side and offered his hand. “I’m so sorry to intrude, and I’m sure Dr Watson will forever reprimand me for this, but he did promise me a dance. I am much obliged,” he quickly added to stop the old man from replying. “I’m sure you understand. So sorry. Do excuse us.” Luckily, John didn’t question this excuse in the slightest. He just took his hand, made his apologies and got up to leave with Sherlock.

Only when they’d gone a few steps from the table did Sherlock question the soundness of his plan. He’d simply said the first thing that had sprung to mind, and now he and John were definitely heading towards the dance floor. John was still holding his hand. Before Sherlock could let it go and awkwardly shuffle aside, John glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ve rather puzzled the poor man, Sherlock, he’s still staring at us.”

Sherlock noted that a few other people had spotted them as well and they had pretty much reached the space reserved for the dancing, between the dinner tables and the small stage where a string quartet was playing a waltz. John still held his hand. He looked up and then at something over Sherlock’s shoulder. “And not just him,” he murmured.

Sherlock was frozen to the spot. He had neglected to correct the assumption that they were a couple and now John was holding his hand. Was he just keeping up appearances? Since when did they do that? And he was practically offering him a chance to do something he’d always wanted to do. Of course it wasn’t necessary to dance just to make good on a random excuse he’d made up on the spot. Sherlock felt conceited to even consider it. And yet…

“Shall we give them something to look at?” John’s voice came out low and a bit husky. Sherlock felt John’s warm hand in his become his sole focus. It seemed more intimate to be holding it than it had a mere moment ago, and Sherlock couldn’t understand why. They had touched many times, but something had definitely shifted that very second. He saw John’s grin, and like someone accepting a dare, he raised his eyebrows and heard himself say, “all right.”

Before Sherlock could think about it, John brought his right arm up under Sherlock’s arm and positioned his hand just below Sherlock’s shoulder blade. His posture became straighter and more controlled and he led Sherlock the few steps onto the dance floor. He brought up their clasped hands next to them and Sherlock, following in amazement, placed his left hand lightly onto John’s shoulder. John fell neatly in step with the rhythm of the waltz, carefully beginning to navigate them around the other couples.

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He was staring in utter delight into John’s eyes. His feet, thankfully, remembered what to do on their own, and John was more than competent, as predicted. He held on tight enough so he could lead wherever they needed to go, but was pliant enough to make the experience surprisingly pleasant. Sherlock’s higher brain functions were trying to make something out of the multitude of sensations assaulting his mind, but gave up pretty much immediately when John shifted a little closer and smiled up at him.

“See, I told you you could dance,” Sherlock managed, trying not to sound like he was floating two feet in the air at least.

“Army functions.” John grinned and rolled his eyes a little.

John was usually not this… demonstrative in public. He was affectionate towards Sherlock in his own way. But he had always protested loudly whenever anyone saw them as more than friends. Sherlock had not expected him to agree to the dance. It was definitely _demonstrative_ , that much was certain. Especially if they kept looking at each other as he suspected they were doing right now.

Sherlock finally broke their eye contact, fearing he might just dissolve if he didn’t, and looked around. “People are definitely staring now,” he murmured to John, glancing down to see what kind of reaction that would elicit. John’s eyes darted around a little, taking in the other dancers and onlookers and swallowed a little.

Then, he held himself a little straighter and looked up at Sherlock with a decidedly cheeky grin. “Are you worried about your dancing? I could give you some pointers, if you like,” he offered innocently.

And just like that, the seriousness of the moment was broken and Sherlock laughed. “You’re getting cocky. I don’t think soldiers are as accomplished dancers as you think they are.”

John’s hand on his tightened a little as he spun him around the corner of the dance floor, and Sherlock felt himself draw a little closer to avoid bumping into another couple. “No, but _you_ are,” John said. “I guessed that, but I didn’t know you’d enjoy it so much.”

Sherlock marvelled. “Very observant. I’ve always loved the classes,” he admitted quietly, delighting once again in telling John something personal that he’d practically never told anybody.

“Why’d you stop?”

Sherlock looked away. “Well… I’d say I outgrew ballet, and for _this_ you sadly need a partner.”

John laughed. “Let me guess, you had a string of girls to dance with that were unaccountably boring and that you reduced to tears before the end of the first song.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I didn’t reduce _all of them_ to tears.”

John chuckled. “Well, we seem to be doing okay,” he offered, quickly glancing away again. And he was right. Sure, they weren’t exactly doing anything complicated, but there was an unexpected ease to it. They floated across the floor without problems, especially considering the lumbering mess some of the other couples made of the waltz. Sherlock felt a stab of pride again.

“I’m surprised you know the, uh, women’s steps so well.” John’s voice sounded hesitant.

“Oh.” Sherlock was surprised. He hadn’t even thought about it. John was shorter than him, so he supposed that the traditional roles were a bit reversed – but since John was the person dating women, it made sense to let him take the male part in the dance. “Yes, I guess you’re right. I learned to do both sides,” he said, and John nearly choked on a breath, coughing.

“I see,” he said pointedly, a rather wicked spark of laughter in his eye.

Sherlock finally realised what he’d said. He rolled his eyes. “Really, John?”

John laughed. “Yes, really.” He caught himself a little and went on slowly, casually. “So, did you… _um_. Practise. Dancing. With other guys, I mean?”

 _Oh God_ , Sherlock thought. He blinked a little and then pointedly did not look at John. “Dear God, John, that was incredibly transparent, even for you.”

John blushed. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock leaned even closer into John so that his mouth was hovering over his ear. He thought he heard John’s breath catch again. “Yes, I _practised with other men_ before,” he said, keeping his voice low. “That much seems obvious, don’t you think?”

He felt John’s sharp intake of breath against his neck. “Things are not always so obvious to me,” he said, carefully, and Sherlock’s heart sped up a bit. He wished he could feel John’s pulse, but their fingers were clasped together. But John’s eyes were definitely darker than usual. He guessed that even the stodgy general from their table could have told him what the look on John’s face meant.

He quickly arranged his face into a carefully neutral mask and looked at John again. “The really interesting question here is: why do you want to know?”

John returned his gaze, eyes suddenly serious and thoughtful. Seeing John’s open look, Sherlock regretted drawing back like this, but he was afraid. Why did he have to talk about these things on a dance floor in front of hundreds of people, and _why was John looking at him like that_. At Sherlock. _Right now_. Sherlock parted his lips to say something more, but he merely managed, “John…” before the string quartet reached the end of the waltz. They came to a stop. John gently released him and bowed, and out of habit, Sherlock did the same.

John gave him a small smile. The quartet was getting ready for the next piece. Sherlock felt that it might not be a good idea to continue this sort of conversation anywhere but Baker Street, so he purposefully put a bit of distance between them. He nodded towards the bathrooms. “I spotted a good way up by the bathrooms. Follow me?”

John’s smile turned serious. “Of course,” he said. Sherlock was immensely relieved that he was so quick on the uptake. They had to get on with the case, after all.

 

_____________________________

 

They decided to split up so as to not draw attention. John went to the bathrooms while Sherlock disappeared into the crowd. John was glad for a moment to gather his wits. Bloody _dancing_. Of course he had to end up dancing with Sherlock Holmes and of course it was messing with his head. _Why do you want to know_? _Oh for fuck’s sake_ , John thought as he stood in the posh bathrooms, washing his hands. How much more obvious could he possibly get? He’d let himself get carried away too easily, and now he was entirely confused as to what the hell was going through Sherlock’s head. He’d looked happy, positively enchanted during the dance, and John had basked in the glow of having made him feel that way. And then he’d botched it up again by asking such a ridiculously loaded question; in public no less. They were actually on a case right now, and John pestered Sherlock with innuendos. What the hell was wrong with him?

What was even worse though was that he now had something else to occupy his brain during sleepless nights. _Practised_ , indeed. He’d wanted to know, didn’t he? And now he heard it in his own words, in that incredibly deep timbre, his sarcastic reprimand leaving no doubt whether they’d both understood what was being said. Sherlock was clearly annoyed by his prying, and John almost felt that it would be better if he had never known.

He shook his head. He’d have to apologize. Somehow. John pushed open the doors and turned into the corridor and stopped abruptly. Sherlock was already standing there, waiting for him. “Ah, there you are,” he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

John followed him without questioning it, relieved for the distraction from his ruminations. As they turned a corner, Sherlock pulled out a sleek key card. Just before the emergency exit there was an unassuming grey door. Sherlock swiped the card through a slot by the handle. The door opened with a quiet click. They slid into a narrow emergency stairwell with bare grey walls and a set of stairs leading upwards. “I watched the guards earlier.” Sherlock began ascending. “There was a brief moment when the emergency exit and the toilets were unguarded. They’re outside, smoking.”

John frowned. “That seems a bit unlikely.”

“One of them is Ricardo.”

John could just about see him smirk faintly as he strode up the stairs with his impossibly long legs in front of him, often taking two at a time. “I thought he was a waiter,” John said, hurrying after him.

“He got changed.” This time the grin was evident in Sherlock’s voice.

John laughed. “I see. And the key card?”

“Ricardo owed me a favour.”

John thought over this for a moment before he realised. “ _Oh_. And I thought that Mycroft…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mycroft wouldn’t help us break into MI5. But he also wouldn’t give me access to the information I need, so here we are.”

“You just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking for it, did you?”

“Same thing,” Sherlock shrugged as he reached the second floor landing.

“Oh God,” John murmured, catching his breath. “We’re actually breaking into MI5, aren’t we?”

“Problem?” Sherlock pulled out the key card again and swiped it at the door on the landing.

“If I had a problem with this sort of thing, I wouldn’t be here and you know it, you entitled bastard.” John grinned at Sherlock, whose lips twitched into a smile again.

The door opened and Sherlock strode on. John followed and dropped his voice to a whisper, stepping into a dark office corridor. “At least if we get caught, Mycroft is in the position to bail us out,” he said under his breath.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, but in the dark he could hardly make out his face. “Don’t count on it. He’d probably be mad at us and lock us up without a trial just to spite me.”

John hissed, “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. That’s not funny!”

Sherlock laughed quietly. “Yes it is,” he whispered, and then led the way.

 

_____________________________

 

After passing what felt like a hundred different offices, Sherlock finally stopped. “This one,” he said, and John stood watch as Sherlock opened the door with the card. There were no guards around, but John had seen a few cameras. “Won’t we be picked up by the surveillance?”

Sherlock looked up at the nearest camera. “Probably. But seeing as Mycroft is the one who’ll be watching them – and only if this is even detected as a break-in – we’ll be okay.”

John rolled his eyes. A lot of this plan revolved around not being allowed by Mycroft to break into the bloody Secret Service and then counting on Mycroft to let them get away with it after the fact. The Holmes brothers would one day be the death of him, John was sure of that.

They entered what turned out to be Lady Smallwood’s office. Sherlock dug out a small torch from his pocket; John wondered where the hell he’d hidden that, seeing as his dinner suit fit him so neatly. Sherlock switched on the computer and handed John the torch. He pointed at a filing cabinet. “See if you can find anything on Blanchard. They never mentioned the name of the ambassador in question, which was probably deliberate, even by Mrs Blanchard. But it should be in the file, if it’s there.”

Sherlock began working on the computer, scoffing at the simplicity of guessing someone’s password and taking it from there – as usual. John began methodically looking through the cabinet. The office around him was silent except for the slight humming of the computer. Sherlock was sitting straight, fingers flying over the keyboard, clad in his ridiculously well-fitted dinner suit. Illuminated by the blueish light from the monitor, he almost looked otherworldly.

John sighed and forced himself to focus on his filing cabinet. They were in luck. A few moments later, he actually found a rather thick file labelled ‘Blanchard, M’.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly and pulled the manila folder out.

Sherlock was by his side in a moment. John spread out the file on the table and began flipping through it, the light from the torch helping them read. Sherlock leaned in over John’s shoulder, their bodies nearly touching. John immediately lost where he was on the page and sighed inwardly.

He had to say something to clear his conscience, at least. “Sherlock… I’m sorry for prying like I did earlier. That wasn’t on.”

Everything became silent behind him. Sherlock’s body had gone still and John was suddenly very aware of every last inch of air between them. Finally Sherlock shifted a little on his feet and said, “it’s fine. Forget it.”

John swallowed. It felt a bit discouraging to hear that, but all the same, he continued. “Well… you actually are a good dancer, as you know, and …” John searched for the right words. “Well, if you ever want to do that again, I promise I won’t cry,” he quipped.

Sherlock chuckled a bit, and John felt the vibration of his chest behind his back. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end.

“Deal,” Sherlock said.

The body behind him shifted again and Sherlock was once again looking over his shoulder, reading the file as if nothing was the matter. John stood still and read the same sentence three times. Sherlock’s hand came up next to him to turn over some papers and he was suddenly focussing very hard on the pale fingers, the delicate wrist protruding from the immaculate white shirt cuffs, the cufflinks shining in the torchlight. The moment felt incredibly surreal and John mentally went through the drinks he’d consumed that night but came up short; he wasn’t _drunk_. It was just… Sherlock.

Sherlock flipped through the folder with the one hand, and _hmmed_ a few times in confirmation. “As I thought,” he murmured.

“What?” John heard himself ask, his voice sounding odd and strained. He felt trapped between the solid body behind and the table in front of him. He hadn’t read a single word.

There was a pause. As a reflex, John looked sideways over his shoulder, trying to get out of the position he was in, trying to gauge what Sherlock was thinking, standing this bloody close to him, making him lose every coherent thought the second after it was formed. As he turned, he lightly brushed up against him. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—“ John muttered softly, before both of them froze.

Footsteps. From down the corridor.

John immediately switched off the tiny torch, plunging the room into darkness. A faint blue glow from the computer was the only light in the office. John held his breath as his eyes adjusted and his ears focussed on the noise. Sherlock suddenly darted forward, switched off the monitor and then gripped his wrist and pulled him swiftly aside.

He knew they couldn’t get out before the guard passed the door. They were flat against the wall behind the cabinet, and would be entirely obscured by the door if it opened. They stood motionless, Sherlock holding on to John’s wrist, and they listened to the footsteps coming closer.

John felt his heart hammer in his chest and the blood rushing through his ears. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, but he tugged a little on Sherlock’s hand, freeing his wrist. He slowly inched his hand up so their palms were touching. He had been going to remove his hand. Then he had changed his mind, planning to simply hold Sherlock’s hand. But something in his brain must have short-circuited and he interlaced their fingers instead. And time seemed to stand still all of a sudden.

 

_____________________________

 

Sherlock was focussing on the footsteps coming closer. Of course the only bloody guard they had patrolling would chose this moment to saunter by and ruin—well, whatever was happening right in this incredibly strange moment. Because John, for some insane reason, was threading their fingers together and his hand was warm and comforting and familiar and suddenly it was very difficult to focus on _anything_ in terms of sensory input except John’s skin on his. He didn’t know how long they stood there. He didn’t know whether he was holding his breath or not. He held on tightly to John’s hand, his brain going a mile a minute trying to figure out what to do next.

The steps passed the door. The light of a torch shone briefly through the door; then the steps receded and continued on through the corridor. Sherlock waited until the sound had completely faded before he moved. He slowly let out a breath and relaxed. He felt John’s grip ease, but he didn’t let go. Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, only faintly visible.

Then he looked up, and met John’s eyes. They were dark pools, blown wide, staring at him in the faint remnants of light in the room.

Suddenly, with a plummeting sensation in his stomach, Sherlock knew _exactly_ what he wanted to do next. But… even though his body was telling him to throw caution to the wind right here and now, he knew that it wasn’t a good idea to try anything where they were. Thoughts and possibilities presented themselves, however, and he unwillingly tightened his lips. He saw John’s eyes drop down, and he was suddenly pretty sure that he wouldn’t stop him. The thought made his chest clench with longing and he blinked to clear his mind.

He gently eased his hand out of John’s, not breaking the gaze. “We should go,” he said quietly, searching John’s eyes. John nodded. Sherlock pulled out his phone, reluctantly looking away. He sent a text to Mycroft.

 _Hold Lady Smallwood for_  
_questioning. Evidence in her_  
_office. – SH_

John leaned in to see and then gave him a questioning glance. “You sure?”

“For now,” Sherlock said. “Let’s go.”

 

_____________________________

 

Sherlock surreptitiously dropped the key card behind a fire extinguisher at the exit, where Ricardo would find it later. He and John went to pick up their coats and left Thames House to catch a taxi. He hoped that nobody made too much of the fact that they left mid-fundraiser, but the circumstance alone that they’d been seen dancing was probably enough for the hateful press. Well, they’d deal with the consequences when they got to it.

Once they were safely in a taxi and on their way home, John began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” He turned to look at John.

“We’re getting a set,” John snickered and reached inside his jacket pocket to pull out— a small glass ash tray.

Sherlock snorted a laugh and John shook his head. “This whole evening. I can’t believe we did that,” he said.

“All in a day’s work,” Sherlock mused.

The atmosphere in the taxi was relaxed after that and they bantered on until they reached Baker Street. Then, however, something shifted. Sherlock was thrumming with anticipation. He unlocked the door and they hung up their coats. John rubbed his hands together for warmth, shuddering a little from the cold December air. Sherlock watched him and suddenly, with shocking certainty, he knew that he needed to kiss John.

His mind became a broad wall of white noise. Sherlock turned, almost as if against his will. John was _right there_ and he moved forward without thinking, fixing John with his eyes. John turned to him as well and as he saw whatever it was in Sherlock’s eyes - determination? Lust? - he tensed and licked his lips.

“Sherlock,” John managed.

“Yes,” Sherlock drawled, inching closer, almost crowding John to the wall, so close that he could smell John’s skin, a mixture of aftershave and wintery air and the crisp fabric of the suit. He reached out and tentatively brushed John’s hand with his.

A faint smile grew on John’s lips. He took Sherlock’s hand, just as gently and carefully. John’s skin felt warm, his hand a bit rough, just as before. He slowly ran his thumb over it. John’s face flushed, his eyelids fluttered nervously. “This was fun,” he chuckled lightly, and Sherlock felt himself join in, still rubbing circles on John’s hand and delighting in the little reactions that produced. If this was how John reacted to touch, how would he react to...

“Which part, exactly - the boring dinner or the breaking into MI5?”

John grinned. He drifted a bit closer still, so that he had to tilt his head slightly to keep eye contact. A rush of excitement spread in Sherlock’s chest. “I think the part where you rescued me from that general was pretty memorable,” John mused, his eyes burning with intensity. “You’re not usually so obliging.”

Sherlock felt his breathing pick up. “And you’re not usually such a damsel in distress. Can’t have other people occupy my Doctor when I need him,” he said, the words springing to his lips before he could think about it.

John was impossibly close. “I see,” he murmured. ”A bit possessive, don’t you think?”

Sherlock could count his eyelashes. John’s head was still tilted up invitingly. Their hands had become entwined somehow, and Sherlock didn’t care when or how.

“Well,” Sherlock murmured, feeling the blood burn in his veins. He saw nothing but John’s large, dark blue eyes, felt nothing except the beating of his heart; he leaned closer so that their foreheads were touching, feeling his eyes flutter closed. He took a breath, wondering where this was going and what it meant; he heard only the rush of blood in his ears and—

A _creaking_.

He raised his head a fraction and glanced up. There was silence around them in the hall, but he could hear something - someone - moving upstairs. John noticed his changed demeanour and frowned. His eyes darted up as well. “What?” He whispered, his breath a soft exhale against Sherlock’s chin.

His ears tingled, his head cocked to the side. “Someone’s upstairs,” Sherlock murmured and gently extricated his hand from John’s. He stepped away towards the stairs, his eyes taking in every detail. There was a drop of blood on the second step. A faint scent of perfume lingered in the air. He knew then there was only one person it could be. Something cold tingled down his spine.

“Mary,” he said.

John was by his side in an instant. “What? How do you know?”

“Her perfume,” Sherlock noted, vaguely aware of how strange it was that he should recognize it when her boyfriend did not.

 _Oh, God._ He had nearly kissed John. _John_. Not only was that terrifying in itself, but he was _dating_ someone. John was, for all intents and purposes, in a relationship. What the hell had he been thinking all evening? How had he simply forgot about that very major impediment? He, of all people, had fallen into the bloody trap: romantic entanglements clouded the mind, they were nothing more than distractions. He had certainly been _distracted_ a moment ago.

John was halfway up the stairs, and Sherlock followed in a daze, feeling as if someone had doused him in ice water. He couldn’t begin to process how close he had been to completely ruining _everything_. He stepped onto the landing and heard John exclaim, “Mary! Oh my God!”

Mary was sitting on the couch, her feet propped up. She was wearing less feminine clothing than usual, dressed in practical black jeans and a dark jumper. Something that looked like combat gear was lying on the coffee table, amongst it a gun and a black beanie, casually tossed aside. Mary’s left arm was bleeding through her jumper, and she was holding it with her right. Her face was pale and sweat was pearling on her forehead.

“Fuck,” John muttered and sat down by Mary’s side.

“John.” She sounded relieved. “Hell of a night you picked to go out.”

“What happened?” He quickly examined her arm and Sherlock could practically see him switch into doctor mode. “Okay, first things first. Sherlock, get me the first aid kit. Bathroom, under the sink.” John looked up at Sherlock, who was still standing transfixed in the doorway. “Sherlock, now!”

John’s commanding tone was what finally got him to move. He found the medical kit - he recognized it, of course; he’d been patched up a few times in the past by John’s nimble fingers and under his remonstrative glare. He carried it back to the sitting room, where John had unceremoniously torn away Mary’s sleeve to reveal an ugly wound on her upper arm.

John rolled up his sleeves. “Why don’t you make some tea.” It didn’t sound the least like a suggestion. John was helping. John was being practical. John was giving him something to do. Sherlock was still reeling with a feeling of complete idiocy. He stared a moment longer at Mary, then quickly went to put the kettle on.

There was a rustle of fabric. “Mary, you got shot,” John said, sounding stunned.

Sherlock began pouring the tea. When he was finished, he brought the tea in, put their cups on the sofa table and settled with his own in his armchair, watching John perform delicate stiches on Mary’s wound. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John’s hands. His brain was still stuck on an endless loop of what had happened between them downstairs.

 

_____________________________

 

When Mary’s arm was competently patched up, her tea was half-drunk, Sherlock’s was empty, and John hadn’t touched his. John breathed out slowly through his nose. He took a sip of his now lukewarm tea, then looked at Sherlock. Then he looked away again.

“Right,” John said, and ran a hand through his hair. He leaned back. He sighed. Mary waited. John took another deep breath. She waited some more. Then she finally said, “I used to work as a… special ops agent.”

John closed his eyes. So they were doing this now, apparently. “Couldn’t this have waited until morning,” he muttered and Mary gave him a bemused smile.

“You don’t sound very surprised. Did Sherlock…?” She looked over to the detective, who was still sitting quietly in his chair, watching them both. John felt a headache building up and a distinct sense of whiplash seemed to suddenly wash over him. Moments ago, he and Sherlock had nearly… well, something had been ready to happen, and now he was sitting here, being a doctor and a friend and very, very tired.

“He hinted,” he managed. “I told him I would wait for you to tell me whatever it was when you were ready.” He sighed again.

“I’m… sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” John looked into her eyes for a moment. Suddenly, he was very aware that they were having this conversation right in front of Sherlock, and there were perhaps a few things he should have cleared up with him by now. Such as Mary having broken up with him. He lowered his voice a bit, his cheeks heating. “I mean… that thought we had. That idea, how great we could have been… did that picture include you telling me this?”

Mary, to her credit, did not blink. She hesitated and then let out a breath. “No.”

“Right.”

“I wanted to leave that life behind me. Completely. I like being Mary Morstan.”

“Oh,” his eyes widened. “Of course… new name. So what’s your real name?”

Mary hesitated again. “Rosamund.”

“So… what should we call you, then? _Rosie_?”

Mary calmly stroked her palms down her knees, smoothing her dark trousers. “I’d prefer to stick with Mary, if you don’t mind.”

John felt himself relax. Something in her voice was almost tentative… and he believed her. He looked at her and realised that she was still the same person. He hadn’t known her all that well before, but apparently, nobody had. “How many people know your real name?”

“Alive?” Her eyes flickered to Sherlock. “As far as I can guess, three people. And that includes both of you.”

John nodded. The sting of having been so rudely interrupted earlier was soothed a little. They’d have time to pick up where they left off later. For now, Mary was safe, and she felt like a friend at last, not just an awkward ex-girlfriend. “Mary it is.”

Sherlock finally spoke, his voice utterly detached and clipped. “The third person who knows… he shot you?”

“We used to be on a team. Ajay’s here now, and he’s after me.”

“So what happened tonight?”

“He caught up with me,” Mary said. “I was hiding, getting a plan together how to get out of here so he wouldn’t find me again. I wanted to disappear,” she added, her voice a little sad. “I just needed a few things from the flat, but that’s where he was waiting. He knew me too well.”

John swallowed. “Which one was he?”

“Ajay…” she sighed, sounding regretful. “He was the one I shot. He didn’t leave me a choice. I think he’s gone mad or something; he must be convinced I betrayed the team. He could just expose me, but for some reason he’s trying to kill me instead.”

“Expose you?”

“We each carry these,” she said, pulling out a large USB stick. The letters A.G.R.A. were written on it in black pen. “They have our whole identities on them. This was our deal. If one of us betrayed the others, the stick would contain enough material that would be devastating if it got into the wrong hands.”

“What about the other man?” Sherlock was still talking without emotion.

“I’ve never seen him before. Really. And I don’t know who the sniper could be, either. Perhaps Ajay hired them.”

“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock said cryptically, but when they waited, he didn’t elaborate. John shook his head at the familiar mannerism.

“So…? How did you get away?” he asked instead.

Mary sighed. “I don’t know, I just made a run for it. I didn’t know where else to go.” She glanced at Sherlock. “I’m sorry for trespassing like this, but I think this is the safest place for me right now.”

“It is,” Sherlock replied calmly.

“Thank you,” Mary said and it sounded like it came from the heart. John realised that Sherlock was probably very annoyed at her being there. He usually threw people out without a second glance. But he let her stay.

He looked at Mary again. “But why did Ajay think you betrayed the team? When did you stop being… well, _AGRA_?”

“About five years ago,” she said. “We had a job in Tbilisi. Someone knew and—“

She was interrupted by John and Sherlock sitting up abruptly, sharing a look. “Tbilisi!” John exclaimed.

Mary looked between them both. “What?”

Sherlock got up as if he’d suddenly been switched on. He began to pace the room. “I knew there was a connection,” he mused, his eyes glinting like a cat’s.

“So, the coup is happening; your team is sent in to free the ambassador. Someone betrays you and you are ambushed. Ajay is captured – probably by terrorists, probably tortured to insanity – the ambassador and his wife are killed and you escaped.”

“How do you—“ Mary began, looking a bit shocked.

“There’s been a murder,” John explained. “The ambassador you were supposed to save knew something. His former assistant was killed Tuesday night.”

“And someone didn’t want it found out,” Sherlock finished his thought. They shared a look. John wondered whether they’d already found their culprit in Lady Smallwood.

John smiled at Mary. “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll find them.” Sherlock gave him a small nod.

“I—“ Mary hesitated. John guessed she was not the kind of person to feel sorry for herself, but she forced herself to say the words. “Look, I know I have no right to expect you to help me.”

John cut her off. “He saved me once when I had nobody,” he said seriously. “Now we’re going to save you.”

 

_____________________________

 

John took Mary upstairs to make the bed up for her and Sherlock followed them with narrowed eyes. Hateful, crafty, _clever_ Mary. _Loveable_ Mary, despite her faults. Charming, deceptive _, excellent-bloody-timing Mary_.

Sherlock remembered their conversation from the hospital. He couldn’t get over his first mistake; she was a very, very good liar. She could have told them – him – anything. She said she didn’t know the guy from their assault and he had bought it, hook, line and sinker. So had Mycroft.

He’d seen how her eyes flickered to John constantly. Sherlock saw something in them he recognized very much from himself: John Watson was a man you didn’t want to disappoint. Mary knew that feeling. She wasn’t lying to them now. Sherlock felt a stab of jealousy, knowing that she had a chance that John would forgive her (after all, he had forgiven Sherlock) and that her loyalty would be… _rewarded_.

The next twenty minutes or so were an exercise in self-control and distraction. He made a fire. He went to his room and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown. He paced the room. He listened to the steps upstairs, the soft murmur of voices. Were they getting intimate now, with him downstairs? Would this be their chance? Sherlock knew that John had not made a move in that direction towards Mary yet, but… she was here, a veritable damsel in distress, and he was making up the bed for her – surely, this was an opportunity waiting to be seized, if the stupid rom-coms he watched with Mrs Hudson sometimes were anything to go by. Sherlock began pacing some more. He picked up his violin but after plucking some strings he put it down again.

Finally, he was lying on the couch, his head on the cushions and his feet dangling over the armrest, staring at the TV (some old, tiresome film), and tried to ignore his thoughts and John and Mary and that odd feeling in his chest. He tried to ignore the fact that he was counting the seconds before he could hear no more talking from the second bedroom.

What he didn’t expect was to hear the creaking of the stairs. John stepped in and closed the door again. Sherlock looked backwards and frowned; John (currently upside down in his vision) was carrying a spare pillow and blanket.

“Budge up,” he said. Sherlock blinked and scrambled to sit up. John carelessly threw down the bundle on the couch. Then he went to the kitchen and made more tea. After a few minutes, he returned and wordlessly handed Sherlock a cup. He was wearing comfortable pyjama pants and a t-shirt and settled in the other corner on the couch, moving the blanket over himself. He propped up his legs between them and finally, he addressed Sherlock again.

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Sherlock stared at him.

“You haven’t moved since I came in and look like you’ve seen a ghost.” John laughed a little. “Tired?”

Sherlock blinked and slowly relaxed to sit more comfortably. “Uh. I guess,” he said carefully and sipped his tea.

John turned to look at the TV, evidently now watching the film. John’s behaviour was really beginning to become unfathomable, bordering on irrational more often than not, but especially so tonight. Finally, Sherlock stated, “you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

John still looked at the TV. “Yes. That all right? I wasn’t going to make Mary take the couch with her injured arm.”

Sherlock stared at him, trying to see exactly what was going through his mind. Taking in every reaction. “So you’re not sleeping with Mary.”

John sputtered in his tea. Then he laughed a bit awkwardly and glanced at Sherlock. “Now who’s asking the inappropriate questions?”

Sherlock frowned, ignoring this remark. He felt an irrational anger bubbling up in his chest, and he was unable to understand it. “John.”

“I mean, it’s fine, Sherlock. _No_ , I am clearly not. Satisfied?”

“Why not?” Why would this make him so angry? What was wrong with him? Shouldn’t he be happy? But if he was happy, that meant… things that he didn’t want to think about. And it suddenly seemed that John was merely postponing the inevitable, drawing out the torturous moment before he slept with Mary, moved out, got married…

“What do you mean?” John asked. He sounded wary, careful. Unsure.

“Well,” Sherlock bristled and put his tea down with more force than was necessary. He looked away. “You have been on six dates with Mary so far, and yet you still haven’t progressed to the point of being intimate. It never usually takes you this long.”

“Right…” John muttered, staring at Sherlock now. There was a bemused half-smile on his lips; he looked surprised, but pleasantly so. It didn’t make _any_ sense whatsoever.

“You may be the perfect gentleman, but even you cannot fail to see the advantages of the situation. She is in distress and you are her caretaker.” Sherlock’s word came rapidly, he hardly took time to breathe. “She is _in your bed_ , John, do I have to spell it out for you?”

There was a beat. His chest was heaving and he didn’t dare look over. And then, John laughed. He laughed freely and sounded more amused and carefree than ever. _What the hell?_

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, and John finally calmed down. “Okay, sorry. It’s just that I didn’t know you paid that much attention…” He put on a more serious look. “Right. Sherlock, first thing: even if I was interested in… doing what you suggest, I wouldn’t take advantage of someone in a vulnerable position. And secondly, Mary and I are no longer dating. I—“ he swallowed. Then he let out a long breath, and his shoulders sagged. “I’m not sure why I didn’t say anything before. We broke up that evening in the art gallery. She’s just here as a friend and we’re going to help her because she’s our friend, okay? No ulterior motives.”

Sherlock blinked slowly as the words settled in. Then he frowned. “But why…? You two seemed… very suited to each other.” He felt like he could hit himself in the face. Why was he suggesting that John be with Mary? _Right_ , because if he wasn’t, Sherlock would have to think about it. It was the much safer option for John to be with Mary. Horrible, but safer.

“You mean the fact that she used to be some kind of secret assassin and lied to me about her identity this whole time?” He laughed. “I mean, I can put up with a lot, but that’s pushing it, Sherlock.”

“But you didn’t know that on Tuesday.” _And I lied to you, too._

John shrugged. “I— Yeah. I don’t know.” He glanced down quickly, his eyelids fluttering. “I guess my heart wasn’t in it.”

Sherlock decided that he wouldn’t press him for now. Which was difficult. He huffed an impatient sigh and let himself flop back into the cushions. He pulled his legs up to his chest and regarded John on the other side of the couch. “You’re not being very efficient about this.”

“About what?” John’s eyes still crinkled with amusement. The corners of his lips were pulled up and created small dimples on his cheeks. Sherlock tried to look away and failed.

“Well, you used to keep dating different women… before,” he brought out. “I can only assume that, eventually, you’re planning to get married and start a family…” _Move out_ , he added mentally. “So Mary seems to have been a good chance to do that. She wants to leave that other life behind her, and you’ve always needed a bit of a thrill in yours, so…” he spread his hands vaguely, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“ _Sherlock_.” John‘s voice sounded very gentle. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock was transfixed. He felt vulnerable, confused and very much out of his depth. Yet somehow he couldn’t stop himself. “Isn’t that what you want? That sort of thing in your life?” he asked very quietly.

John let out a long sigh and a faint blush crept onto his cheeks. He leaned forward for a moment and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I _have_ everything I want in my life.” His eyes locked onto Sherlock’s.

Sherlock momentarily lost his train of thought. This was… new. He blinked. He stopped himself. He went over the conversation in his mind again. And again. He drew back into his mind palace, wondering at all the things that John had said, all the little tells that might have been tells after all; the looks, the smiles – it was unbelievable, but all the evidence seemed to point to the irrefutable idea that John was suddenly, inexplicably, _interested in him_. He wanted to be here, with Sherlock, despite the fact that there was nothing Sherlock was offering in that department, despite the fact that Mary was asleep upstairs in John’s bed, despite the fact that Sherlock had lied and left… Despite it all, John was still here.

Yes, he'd realised that John would have kissed him. But that had been... the heat of the moment. The nerves or the adrenaline or the high of the case. But Sherlock hadn't thought that... not _really_. He hadn't really believed it might happen, that he could feel that way. After _everything_. He suddenly felt afraid. If John felt that way, Sherlock could only disappoint him. He could try, oh, he'd love to try... but ultimately? Could something good really come of this? Sherlock shook his head, his thoughts tumbling between the desire to be closer to John and the frantic need to get away, to be alone and safe and not responsible for what might happen between them.

By the time Sherlock was finally aware of his sitting room again, the film had long ended. John had slumped down under his blankets, asleep. His feet had slipped and his legs were resting against Sherlock’s legs, and Sherlock felt a stab of fondness at the warmth and familiarity between them. He slowly rested his hand on John’s legs, and let go of some of the tension in his shoulders. His eyes travelled over John’s face; the soft fringe falling into his face, the lines of anxiety and the still sunken cheeks smoothed out on sleep, making him look younger and more like the man he was when they met. Sherlock thought about John’s face as they danced. John’s eyes as he came closer, close enough to kiss.

He should really get up, let John have the couch, and forget all about the messy feelings that were threatening to worry him to death.

Instead, Sherlock slid down as well and stretched out his legs next to John. He rearranged the blanket so it was covering him a bit as well and then dragged a pillow under his head. And with John’s body snug against his, he fell asleep in minutes.

 


	9. Combined Efforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft combine notes on the case.

Sherlock was twitching in his sleep. He dreamt up confusing images about some of his time away, a memory turned nightmare where he was bound and gagged by some members of Moriarty’s gang. There was something about John in the dream, too, but he couldn’t quite remember, just as he couldn’t quite remember where the memory ended and the nightmare began. But John was there and had mostly looked sad or seemed out of reach. Sherlock slowly struggled to wake fully, shaking off the vague images. He still felt as if he was somehow bound or _trapped_ and—

 _Oh._ Suddenly, he blinked and sucked in a sharp rush of air. He had wriggled his legs and arms because there _was_ something restraining him; he was fully awake the moment he realised it was _John_. His legs were tucked in between John’s body and the back of the sofa. John was turned to his side and had slung an arm over them; he was still sleeping, Sherlock noticed with relief. John’s legs stretched out next to Sherlock and his arm had gotten trapped underneath them. Sherlock gently drew it back and flexed his fingers to work against the numbness that was enveloping it.

Sherlock felt warm, just like last time. After he had crawled into John’s bed on Tuesday to chase away his nightmares, he had woken up early to an unexpected warmth emanating from the other body under the blanket. Definitely a new sensation and not entirely unpleasant in cold December. _Tuesday_ , Sherlock remembered with a jolt. His eyes wandered over John’s prone form, his breath fluttering against Sherlock’s legs. That Tuesday night had been only hours after John and Mary had apparently called it quits. He tried to remember what he could about John’s demeanour that night; it was baffling that he hadn’t immediately deduced what had happened. Just like he should have known, last night, that John was not going upstairs to sleep with Mary. Sherlock was still frowning. He was usually more perceptive than was good for him; and _now_ he was slipping?

Was it John? Was he such a tremendous distraction even without anything… _developing_ between them? Would it get worse? One could only imagine the horror that would be life in an actual relationship with John. Sherlock would constantly be distracted, forgetful, unobservant…

_Distracted by those eyes. Forgetful because of that smile. Too observant of John’s every move to notice anything else._

_Oh, God._ Sherlock dropped his still numb hand heavily onto his face where it landed with a satisfyingly painful _slap_. He had to pull himself out of this madness. He had to remove the cloying sentimentality threatening to overwhelm him like a malignant growth in his brain and heart. It was the only way for him to stay sane.

Suddenly, he heard a small shuffling sound and he looked up sharply.

Mary was standing in the kitchen door, cradling a mug and suppressing a smirk. When she saw him awake, she placed a finger lightly on her lips and retreated into the kitchen.

Sherlock groaned into his hand. This was by far the worst Saturday morning he had ever had to endure, and that was counting that one day when he was forced to go shopping with Mummy and Mycroft. (After that, Mummy had discovered the joys of ordering online.) He gently extricated his limbs from John. His eyes rested another moment on John’s relaxed face and his closed eyes and his hands and… well, all right, perhaps this wasn’t _the worst_ Saturday morning.

Once he got up with his dignity more or less intact, he raised his chin and schooled his features into a calm, neutral expression. He stepped into the kitchen, made a point of not looking at Mary and went straight for the kettle. The room smelled of coffee, shower gel and faint traces of laundered shirt. As the kettle began bubbling away, Sherlock grabbed a mug and a teabag, risking a glance in the direction of his unwelcome guest.

Mary was watching him, sitting casually at the table. She wore a dark tank top that looked like she’d worn it under the rest of her gear the night before. Draped over her shoulders was one of John’s plaid shirts. He could make out the traces of the thick bandage on her arm. He quickly looked away when he saw her calm smile. “Good morning,” she said. Her voice was steady and calculated, but not unfriendly. She rather looked like she was in her element, somehow. _Infuriating woman_.

“Is it?” Sherlock replied, shovelling the third spoonful of sugar into his teacup with perhaps a little bit too much force.

“It certainly looked like it.” He could practically _hear_ her smirk. God, she was as bad as Mycroft.

Sherlock felt something bubble up inside him. He took a deep breath and then spoke quietly, with force. “You were going to leave the country, to never see him again. You wouldn’t even have said goodbye. And now that you decided you need help after all, you’re more than ready to accept his hospitality, because you know what kind of a man he is.” It wasn’t what he had meant to say at all. But there it was.

Mary waited a moment before she spoke. “Oh. I see, so we’re doing this straightaway. Yes.” She sat up a bit straighter and Sherlock finally turned around, sipping his overly sweet tea. “Yes, I know what kind of a man he is. And so do you,” she challenged with a cocked eyebrow.

Sherlock frowned at her. “Yes.” _One of a kind_ , he thought.

Mary gave a satisfied nod. “I won’t lie; I am relieved. I don’t think I would have made it on my own.” Her eyes became harder now, determined. “But if you think I’m going to throw John under the bus on my way, you haven’t bloody _deduced_ me at all.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. She kept on surprising him. It was either very off-putting or rather intriguing, he hadn’t decided yet. There was also the worrying fact that Mary seemed somewhat _loyal_ towards John. Was she planning on staying in his life? Was she planning to get him back? He was stopped from exploring that notion, however, by the shrill ring of the doorbell. He groaned, knowing instantly who it was.

“Ooh, it’s your brother isn’t it? You get a certain look around the eyes,” Mary added by way of explanation. She grinned and got up. “I’ll get it. I imagine he’d like a chat.”

She walked over to Sherlock and stopped right next to him before she left the kitchen. She smiled a little and placed a hand on his arm, briefly. It looked like she was going to say something else, but perhaps Sherlock’s offended look put her off. She merely shook her head, patted his shoulder and briskly jogged down the stairs.

Huffing out an annoyed sigh, Sherlock checked himself, clamped his mouth shut and pouted into his tea instead. He heard faint voices from downstairs and a groan from the sitting room. Sherlock put his tea down and went back into the other room.

The sight that greeted him made one side of his mouth twitch upwards and he felt his whole body soften as some of the tension simply seeped away. John was sitting up on the couch, his lap covered in the rumpled blanket. He began stretching. His shirt hitched up over his hips just enough that Sherlock got a brief glimpse of his skin. John looked, well, a bit of a mess. His hair was sticking in all kinds of directions, his face was tired… but in that moment Sherlock remembered some of the things he’d said last night, remembered sleeping there next to him. And suddenly, John looked absolutely _perfect_.

“Good morning,” he said quickly. “Mycroft is here. Perhaps a strategic retreat might be in order?” Sherlock glanced meaningfully at John’s delightfully rumpled state. John glanced up, gave him a shocked look as soon as he heard the name, and gathered up his blanket.

“Christ. Don’t have to tell me twice,” he mumbled and made his way to the door. Sherlock thought he could make out ‘ _what kind of a bloody time does he call this_ ’ and further profanities as he quickly scrambled up to his room. Sherlock turned away abruptly towards the window, wiping the fondness off his face as best he could.

“Good morning, brother mine,” a voice drifted through the doorway as Mycroft showed himself in.

“It certainly isn’t,” Sherlock told the window.

“What’s the matter,” Mycroft drawled. “Don’t like house guests?”

Sherlock groaned internally. Of course his brother would point right at the problem and then prod it until it bled. “What do you want?”

“Well. Let’s skip the squabbling, then. We have work to do.” Mycroft’s voice became more serious. “I understand you have taken on a new case?”

Sherlock turned around to see Mycroft sitting comfortably in John’s chair, whilst Mary was sitting rather primly on the only other chair in the room besides his own. _The chair_. _Oh_. He raised an eyebrow at her and clicked his tongue. “Apparently so.”

Mycroft gave Mary a look that clearly spelled out ‘ _we’re going to have a talk later_ ’, which she pointedly ignored. He dug into his briefcase and brought out a file. “Whilst I do love the game of cat and mouse the two of us have going, I think on this one we ought to combine our efforts. Share our resources, as it were.”

Sherlock hummed a vague assent to that. He would never happily work with Mycroft on a case, but he was aware that their own lives were in the line of fire. Family feuds would have to wait. He sat down in his chair and folded his hands. “Lady Smallwood?”

“She’s being unofficially held under suspicion of espionage, for now.”

Sherlock nodded. He closed his eyes and began.

“Five years ago, the British Ambassador in Georgia received some security tapes from his aide. Whilst Montgomery Blanchard didn’t understand the information contained in them, the ambassador did. He made arrangements to follow up on his suspicions. Last night I had the chance,” he pronounced the word as innocently as he could, not missing Mycroft’s raised eyebrow in the least, “to look at records of calls made at the MI5 offices mere days before the tragic mishap in Tbilisi.” His eyes flew to Mary, who was watching him intently. “Only two people could have taken that call at that specific time: Lady Smallwood or her communications chief, one Deborah Lungley. The same line that received the ambassador’s call made one other call to another secure line within MI5 that same day. The number was blocked in a way only the highest ranks in your excuse for a civil service can be. One day later, Miss Lungley was found choked to death in her flat in Holborn.”

“It was regarded as an accident at the time,” Mycroft observed.

“There was no motive,” Sherlock conceded with a nod. “There is now.”

Mary piped in, sounding thoughtful. “So… the whole thing was not to get my team killed – it was about shutting the ambassador up?”

Mycroft nodded. “We suspected there was a mole for some time, but after that, the trail went cold. We assumed that A.G.R.A simply failed the mission. We never hired freelancers again.”

“We were betrayed,” Mary said, balling a fist.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “By the people who hired you.”

A moment of silence elapsed, broken only by the sound of John’s steps as he slowly came down the stairs and joined them. He was dressed in jeans and a shirt now, but still looked every bit like someone rudely awakened not too long ago. “Morning,” he said carefully, looking between them as if he’d entered a war council. Perhaps that was an accurate image.

Mycroft acknowledged him with a brief nod. His eyes skipped over his appearance, and Sherlock knew he knew exactly what the sleeping arrangements had been the previous night. He pressed his lips together and looked away from John.

“My turn.” Mycroft pressed his palms together under his chin. “This morning, two of my agents were found dead. They were following up some leads on our sniper. He found them first. Clean headshots.”

Sherlock heard John swallow. He sat down on the sofa. “Oh God,” he murmured.

“Fortunately, they did not die in vain. From their previous reports and the examination of the bullets, we’ve narrowed it down to two possible suspects. One of them, as far as we know, is currently in a high security cell in Hongkong. The other… well. He was a known associate of James Moriarty.”

Sherlock felt his whole body stiffen. The fading scars on his back itched. He tried very hard not to look at John. “Moran,” he whispered. He’d suspected it, really, but he hadn’t allowed himself to say it before.

Mycroft nodded.

“Sorry, who’s that? Who’s Moran?” John was standing again, hovering behind Mary’s chair.

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock enunciated every syllable with a hiss. “He was the one who picked up the pieces after Moriarty was gone. We saw glimpses of him all over Europe. I nearly… ran into him in Serbia,” he added with a dark look at Mycroft.

Mycroft had the grace to swallow uncomfortably and looked at John. “We lost track of him when Sherlock returned,” he explained, summarising a whole range of fights and squabbles to this one relative truth. His eyes flickered back between Sherlock and Mary. “But it is possible that it’s him, trying to exact his revenge.”

“It’s not just _possible_ , Mycroft, it is him. It’s the only explanation.” Mycroft nodded reluctantly, his brow furrowed.

“So let me get this straight,” John said. “Someone is killing government agents because of a mole five years ago, and the same nutter is after us now?”

“Not just some nutter,” Sherlock said quietly. “The most dangerous nutter in London. He was Moriarty’s right-hand man.” His eyes strayed to John’s and he felt that flash of fear and anger again that he had felt on the roof with Moriarty. Taunting him about his friends. “A crack shot.” Sherlock’s voice tasted bitter on his own tongue. “As good as you, probably better with a rifle. He was the one who was supposed to... If I hadn’t jumped.” He balled his fist, and he had to look away from John for a moment.

“Oh.” John’s eyes widened and he swallowed heavily. For a second, Sherlock thought he saw his hand rise, perhaps to touch him. Or perhaps he was going to say something, but their eyes met for a moment and John drew back.

_Not here, like this, with them._

_No._

John lowered his chin and straightened. John moved over, to stand by Sherlock’s side. He looked at Mary. “And how does your nutter fit into all this?”

Mary’s face was grim. She evidently hadn’t seen their little exchange. “Ajay thinks that I betrayed A.G.R.A. – he doesn’t know about any moles.”

“No.” Mycroft’s eyes flickered for a moment to Sherlock. Of course, Mycroft _would_ notice everything. “He doesn’t. But we do have a theory. The timing is hardly a coincidence.”

“What do you mean?” Mary shuffled to the edge of her seat, watching Mycroft.

“There is evidence that links Moran and his gang to certain high-profile meddling in Georgia around the time of the coup. We’ve had reports about his people capturing and basically brainwashing agents. One of the first jobs that links him to Moriarty involved a former French agent shooting his superior officer and then himself.”

“You think this… Moran got to Ajay?”

“He might have kidnapped him after the incident, yes. We do not know for sure, of course, but it is possible that he is using your former team mate to help him pick off his targets now.”

“Bastard,” Mary muttered, staring at the carpet. “Ajay was good. He still is, from what I can tell. Even injured, he’s a serious problem.” She swallowed.

Sherlock hummed into his folded hands. He wondered whether Mary realised that she was a target much more for being attached to John – and by extension, Sherlock. He decided to not enlighten her on this point. “So the only question that remains is this: who’s the mole? Do you think it was her?”

Mycroft slowly shook his head, an unexpected uncertainty in his eyes. “I’ll have to talk to her.”

“The communication logs, Mycroft.”

“We are on it, don’t you worry,” he snapped and began typing into his phone.

Sherlock was about to offer another snide remark, but he never got the chance. A deafening noise erupted from outside, as a violent explosion rocked the building. The windows burst inwards, shards of glass hailing on them with a vengeance. The shock propelled Sherlock out of his chair, straight into Mycroft, who fell backwards off the toppling armchair with a grunt. John was barrelled off his feet and collided into Mary’s chair, throwing them both to the ground. Picture frames and forgotten teacups crashed to the ground, papers flying around them like leaves in a gale. Car alarms sounded on the streets. A dust cloud gathered around them. Somewhere, people were screaming.

Sherlock groaned at the pain that spread through his body from the impact. He scrambled off Mycroft and crawled over to where John lay. “John…” he muttered. His thoughts were spinning in circles.

What had exploded?

 _John_.

From the sound and distance and velocity…

_I need to make sure he is all right._

…it must have been a car out front.

_John was standing. The speed and force would have…_

Was it Mycroft’s car?

_John._

“John!” Sherlock kneeled and gently shook him by the shoulder. His maroon jumper was covered in plaster dust. Slowly, John began to move and groaned in pain. Sherlock felt a huge weight lift off his heart. “John… are you all right?”

John’s eyes fluttered open with some difficulty. He coughed up some dust. “I’m okay.” His voice sounded pained. Sherlock saw a trace of blood trickling into his eyes as John carefully sat up, helped by Sherlock’s arm. He quickly ran his fingers over John’s forehead, ascertaining the damage. “It’s superficial,” he said, the relief evident in his voice. John touched his forehead and nodded. A piece of glass must have nicked him as it flew past. Nothing dangerous. Sherlock breathed.

“You…?” John quickly let his eyes wander over Sherlock’s body, his hands running down his arms for a second.

Sherlock nodded and squeezed his hand. “Yes.” His heart lurched at the look John gave him and he wondered whether he currently looked equally as transparent.

“Mary?” John managed. “Mycroft?”

“I’m all right,” Mary’s voice was weak as she began scrambling to her hands and knees as well. Her arm had started bleeding a little again, but the rest of her seemed to be intact. Mycroft grunted from behind the overturned armchair. “Fine,” he grumbled, evidently shocked but determined not to let anyone notice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held out a hand to John. Together, they managed to heave each other to their feet. They stood closely, John steading himself with his arms on Sherlock’s, when suddenly John’s eyes widened, staring at a spot on his chest, and he quickly pulled Sherlock to the side, throwing them both to the floor again. Sherlock’s shoulder collided with the desk and he grunted at the sharp pain. “On the floor, stay down!” John barked. “Sniper. He’s here. Stay where you are.” He was lying on his side, his arms still held protectively around Sherlock where they’d fallen.

Sherlock felt the commanding voice reverberate through his core. They were arguably in the worst kind of situation, yet John was in control. He marvelled how he did it. And he realised that even though Moran was probably out there, waiting, trying to pick them off one by one… Sherlock wasn’t worried about himself. He felt John’s arms and John’s chest heaving beneath him. He heard every precise inflection in John’s voice and Sherlock knew that Moran was the one who should be worried once John Watson got on his trail.

Sherlock only felt the still simmering rage over the fact that this man continued to threaten them. Continued to do the dirty work for a man long dead. Correction, Sherlock thought: He should be worried once John Watson and Sherlock Holmes got on his trail, together.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock heard himself say, quietly. “We’re out of sight. We’re okay.” He swallowed.

John loosened his steely grip on him a little. “Just… wait.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft was still crouched behind the armchair, firing rapid instructions into his phone. Mary was breathing hard, hissing as she crawled on her injured arm to cower behind the sofa. She shared a look with John and Sherlock. Mary was worried and injured and they needed help to get them safely away from Baker Street. He hoped Mycroft’s people would hurry up. He desperately hoped that Mrs Hudson was okay.

People were still screaming outside. The sound of sirens was coming closer. Sherlock calmed by focussing on John’s breathing. His head was pressed awkwardly against John’s chest and he heard his heart beat as well as felt his erratic breath on his hair. He let himself simply breathe along, breathing in John, and everything calmed.

He remained in this position until he heard heavy boots on the stairs. When they heard people entering, calling to them, John finally let go of him and they slowly sat up. It was Mycroft’s team.

“Sir!”

“We’ve secured the perimeter. No sign of the bomber or the sniper.”

“Anthea? Ferguson?”

“Alive, but injured. They’re on their way to the hospital, sir.”

“Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock’s voice sounded cracked and raspy.

“She’s being seen to. Nothing major,” the man nodded at Sherlock. He felt John next to him let out a breath and they shared a look of relief.

Sherlock heard Mycroft sigh heavily. “We’re all okay here, I think.” He quickly glanced around. He exchanged a look with Mary, who was still holding her injured arm, cradling it to her chest. She shook her head slightly, and he accepted with a nod. _No hospital detour._ “We’re going straight back to base,” he ordered.

“A car’s waiting downstairs,” the other man confirmed, and Mycroft turned to John.

“Pack some things,” he ordered, and John glanced once at Sherlock for confirmation before he jumped up and made his way upstairs as quickly as his legs let him.

Sherlock managed to get to his room and began haphazardly throwing clothes into a travel bag. A series of images flittered through his mind. Packing quickly in Belarus, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Leaving behind his belongings in Serbia, because there was no time. Mycroft had interfered too much, Sherlock thought. His back twitched a little in remembrance. But without him, he wouldn’t know where to go right now. He wouldn’t know how to keep them safe.

Back in the living room, or what was left of it, he saw John quickly pack both their laptops, their passports and other bits and bobs. Sherlock joined Mycroft on the stairs. He nodded once and went ahead downstairs. He dropped his bag at the bottom of the stairs and marched straight to Mrs Hudson’s, following the sound of fussing.

“I am perfectly all right, I tell you, you should go and see how John and Sherlock—“

Sherlock stepped in, relief washing over him once again. Mrs Hudson was sitting by her kitchen table, looking none the worse for wear. A man who looked like he belonged to Mycroft’s team, equipped with a paramedic bag, was bandaging her wrist. “Oh! Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson nearly jumped up, but the man held her back with a look. Mrs Hudson had tears in her eyes, but it looked like happy relief. The medic finally finished his task and told her to rest her sprained wrist and then left.

Sherlock quickly joined Mrs Hudson by the table and gave her a quick hug. He took a deep breath. All his family was in one piece.

She didn’t ask about the explosion. But she seemed to read his mind. “John?”

“He’s fine. A few scratches and bruises. But we’re fine.”

“Oh thank God,” she exclaimed and let out a breath.

“I think it might be a good idea to leave town for a little while, Martha,” Sherlock said quietly, and saw her soften ever so slightly at the use of her given name. He didn’t do it often, but he felt a little shaken right now and it was oddly comforting.

“Yes, dear, I think I will. My sister’s for Christmas, I think,” she mused, flexing her arm a little.

“Christmas?” Sherlock replied absently.

She gave a little chuckle. “Well yes, it’s only a week or so away, isn’t it?”

“Oh.”

“Call me when you’re back. Be safe, dear?”

“Yes, I imagine we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, I had a bit of writer's block! Now I feel better though :-) Hit me up on tumblr (julia-irian) if you like, I'm always looking to meet more fellow johnlockers :-)


	10. In Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy little family hideout... at MI5.

A few hours later saw John, Sherlock and Mycroft seated in something that _looked like_ an MI5 office. John suspected that it was, in fact, a fortress within a fortress. Mary was being seen to somewhere, by someone who _looked like_ a nurse but was probably a government agent. Some team or other was securing 221B, Mrs Hudson was on her way to her sister’s, Lestrade was having a fit (evidenced by a long string of worried texts to both Sherlock and John) and John and Sherlock were safe and sound, ensconced inside what was definitely fortress.

They had all recovered a little from their scare that morning, supported by copious amounts of tea and biscuits. The one thing to do, they’d agreed, was to solve the bloody case already, so they could all go home. John didn’t really want to think too much about what came after that, so he focussed his efforts on what he could do here and now.

Unfortunately, that meant the painstaking examination of every single communications log from a certain time period five years ago. Fortunately, he didn’t have to do it alone.

Mycroft was going through a pile of print-outs at his desk, giving Sherlock and John the occasional glance, eyebrow raised. This was probably due to the slightly unorthodox method the two of them employed in their search. John was reclining in a desk chair, his legs propped up on the large mahogany corner desk, the computer on his lap showing a large, detailed spreadsheet. Sherlock was sitting on the floor next to him, sandwiched between two archive boxes, reading out names.

“Gerard, Valerie.”

John scrolled through the spreadsheet. “Temp. Assistant to Richardson for four months while they were… ah.” He scrolled all the way to the furthest column titled ‘Notes’. “They were looking for a replacement for someone who’d left on maternity leave. It doesn’t say who.”

“That would be Ewing, Deborah,” Sherlock murmured, putting aside ‘Gerard, Valerie’ into another pile. John was sure that there was some kind of system to the numerous paper stacks surrounding Sherlock, but he hadn’t shared it yet.

“And Richardson…”

“The serial adulterer from Finance. He handed in a bill for no less than five dinner engagements in one month, all logged as work related. If it had been his wife, he wouldn’t have gotten through with it so easily – but shagging colleagues is apparently encouraged here,” Sherlock’s voice was bright and cheering, as if he was describing the perks of working for the government.

John looked up just in time to catch Mycroft’s mutinous scowl and he snorted a laugh. He glanced back down to regain his composure only to meet Sherlock’s eyes and after a moment the two of them chuckled in unison. John thought he saw that rather fond expression cross Sherlock’s features again, the one he’d been seeing more and more of in the last couple of days. He quickly looked away again, however.

“Rupal, Naresh.”

John went back to his list, smile still lingering on his lips. “Okay… ooh. _Investigation_. Active duty. Like 007 or something?”

“Oh please,” Sherlock scoffed. “He wishes. Also that’s MI6. And fictional. _Really_ , John.”

John smirked. “He was in contact with the Georgian embassy at the time of the attack. Could have had access.”

“Nah, he’s not the type,” Sherlock proclaimed, glaring at a few pages of bills. “Not with this kind of taste.” He didn’t elaborate and placed the page swiftly on the pile John suspected to be for the shredder. John giggled again, earning another glower from Mycroft.

“Yes, very enlightening, Sherlock,” he groused. “Now could you two please keep the charming banter to a minimum, I am trying not to kill myself over here.”

“It was worth a try,” Sherlock murmured, which brought out another suppressed chuckle in John. Sherlock looked decidedly pleased about that.

Mycroft shifted in his chair and John thought he heard him mutter, “should have never brought you home.”

He quickly looked away again and calmed his laughter. He was still mad that Mycroft for not telling him, but by now that was outweighed by how grateful he was on a basic level that Sherlock was back in one piece. Every time something from his time away came up, it didn’t sound like a picnic. Also, there was Molly’s “ _Oh it’s so good that you’re not dead_ ”. She must have been aware about some of the scrapes Sherlock had gotten himself into. John wasn’t sure he needed to know. He looked up the next name for Sherlock, really acknowledging the fact that despite the numerous attempts on their lives, they were still here, spending the evening with tedious fact-checking. Somehow, even the most boring task suddenly seemed enjoyable, as long as they were together.

“Did you hear that? Your brother called us charming,” John observed and Sherlock had to pause the name-checking for another long, deep chuckle.

John thought he saw Mycroft give him another look, yet this time something that approximated a smile. He decided he must have imagined it.

\------------------------------------------

That evening, John collapsed into his bed in their room with an audible groan. He and Sherlock were sharing some kind of guest room on one of the higher floors. It was simple and functional and really made John miss their comfortable mess at home. It reminded him too much of bedsits and hospital rooms and recovery wards.

He rolled over, kicked off his shoes and debated simply falling asleep in his clothes. It had been a long day. That morning, he’d woken up on the couch, still reeling from certain developments the night before, such as almost kissing Sherlock and finding out that his ex-girlfriend was an assassin. He wasn’t sure which of the two was more shocking, really. And then everything had gone tits up very quickly in such a spectacular manner that he hadn’t really had time until now to process any of it.

Apparently Sherlock wouldn’t let him have a moment to think things through, either. He came out of the en-suite bathroom, carrying his laptop in one hand and brushing his teeth with the other.

“Dhon! I have foung another lisht of purchashesh to check,” he exclaimed with enthusiasm, toothbrush dangling from his mouth.

John chuckled as he slowly sat up to pull his jumper over his head. “Oh, _goog_ ,” he said. “How’s the multitasking going then?” He threw his jumper over the only chair in the room, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He did not fail to notice how Sherlock’s eyes moved down to follow the movement of his hands and how his breath caught in his throat. Unless John was imagining things, he knew he was being _looked at_.

“Fine,” Sherlock mumbled after a moment and quickly went back to the bathroom. When he was done, he purposefully did not look at John as he passed him, clad only in his boxers and a t-shirt. He stood in the small room, still holding his laptop with one hand and clicking through a list with the other. When John returned from the bathroom, however, he found Sherlock had gotten comfortable on his bed.

John felt a slight flush creep up his neck, but he told himself to _calm the fuck down_. “Um,” he cleared his throat.

“Plenty of space,” Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly, gesturing to the bed, but John could see a slight pink tinge to his cheeks.

“What about your bed?” John asked, amused.

“There’s no space to sit, it’s full of stuff,” Sherlock explained matter-of-factly.

 _All_ your _stuff_ , John thought. “So you’re just… going to sit there?”

“Yes. I need to work without Mycroft breathing down my neck. Don’t think I’ll sleep,” Sherlock told the laptop, still not looking up. “That okay?”

 _What a question_. Jesus. John was sure that if Sherlock had stripped naked and crawled into his bed it would have been okay, too. More than okay, in fact. But that was not the way Sherlock did things. Perhaps this was his way of showing he wanted to be close, and John wasn’t going to say no to that opportunity. Perhaps he simply had to be patient and see how things developed.

He shrugged and smiled. “Suit yourself,” he said as casually as he could and climbed into bed. The frame was built into a kind of niche, providing a wall behind the head and the foot of the bed. Sherlock was sitting at the foot, his back against the wall, his legs propped up. John wriggled a little to get the blanket free of its current occupant and squeezed his legs past Sherlock’s lanky form.

John watched him for a moment longer, until Sherlock gave him a questioning look. “Good night, Sherlock,” he said gently, and rolled over to dream of dinner suits and dancing to violin quartets.

\------------------------------------------

The next day, John awoke feeling oddly well-rested. No nightmares had plagued him, and as soon as he cracked an eye open, he guessed he knew why.

Sherlock was still reclining on the opposite end of the bed, wide awake. His legs were stretched out next to John and sometime during the night he had lost the jacket. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, his sleeves pushed up. He looked a little pale and tired in the morning light; but his eyes, despite the shadows under them, seemed bright and deeply satisfied. His hair stuck out unruly from his head and a few curls fell over his face. In one brief glance, John felt as if his stomach had decided to ignore gravity today and a warmth rose through his chest and neck all the way to his face. He quickly made sure his mouth was clamped shut, as staring slack-jawed at Sherlock was surely a bit not good.

Sherlock gave him one of those personal smiles again. “Good, you’re awake.” He rested a hand briefly on John’s legs. “I found something.”

He turned his laptop around and placed it on John’s stomach. With his hands over the blanket so _close_ and his entire body so… _in his bed_ , John was incredibly glad for the distraction, especially as he got worried he might notice his developing morning wood. He quickly chased thoughts of Sherlock’s body from his mind and glanced at the laptop. To his relief he found something to help get rid of his unwanted arousal quickly enough: another bloody spreadsheet. He sighed. “Good morning,” he mumbled. “What’s this then?”

“Proof. The mole is not Lady Smallwood, it’s her PA, Vivian Norbury.”

“What…? Sherlock you figured all this out over night with a spreadsheet?”

Sherlock studied his hands with practised indifference. “Yes. Well, I also called Mrs Blanchard again.”

“What? When?!”

“At around 4:30 this morning.” He quickly held up his hands. “Don’t worry, I knew she would be awake by then. Just confirming a few things.”

John huffed a laugh. “Kindred spirit indeed. You’re brilliant.”

Sherlock’s smile widened until his eyes crinkled at the sides and John laughed and sighed all at once, wishing he could just drag him down to his side to show him exactly what it did to him when Sherlock looked at him like that.

In that moment, Sherlock averted his eyes again and quickly swung his long legs off the bed. “Come along, then, we need to speak to Mycroft.” He grabbed some clothes from his bag and vanished into the bathroom. John allowed himself one more moment to get his feelings under control, laughed again, and then got dressed quickly.

\------------------------------------------

They were back in Mycroft’s office before long, equipped with tea and some croissants which John was devouring gratefully. Mary was back, her arm professionally bandaged again. She shared a reassuring smile with John, also munching on the meagre breakfast. To John, the situation was somehow incredibly surreal. The feel of being in this place without windows, the touch of the posh yet impersonal chairs, the whole clinically clean and at the same time dusty smell of the offices they’d been in – he felt curiously disembodied, as if everything wasn’t quite real. The only real thing, strangely enough, was Sherlock. He was pacing the room, impatiently waiting for his brother. Somehow, his bodily presence here grounded John, allowed him to relax slightly. Having been up all night, he was muttering a stream of insults against such regular mortals who thought a good night’s sleep was an excuse not to be working on the case, and John felt a smile ghost over his lips.

Thankfully, Mycroft arrived before Sherlock went out to look for him. To John’s surprise, he brought a guest.

“Lady Smallwood,” Sherlock greeted. “How very helpful, Mycroft.”

Mycroft ignored the sarcasm. “From your message I took it she wasn’t a suspect any longer, so I thought any insight might be appreciated.”

John was hastily getting to his feet and brushed crumbs off his lap. Mary snickered a little. John held out a hand as Mycroft introduced them. “Ah, Doctor Watson,” Lady Smallwood said. “Nice to finally meet you. Love the blog.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Yes, yes, don’t we all. Now can we get on with it?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Quite.”

“You said you had proof of our mole?” Mycroft pulled out a chair for Lady Smallwood, and sat down on the edge of his desk.

“Yes.” Sherlock steepled his fingers and stood in front of them, ready to impress. “I believed that our dear ‘Love’ was responsible because all of the relevant messages contained her personal communications code.” Mycroft frowned; clearly disgruntled that Sherlock would simply throw around people’s secret codenames like that. But then he glanced at Mary, who shrugged, and he dramatically rolled his eyes as Sherlock continued. _Yep_ , thought John. _Surreal_.

“They were clearly either intended for her or for someone who used her clearance. But anyone who would do that more than once or twice would surely trigger alarms or raise questions.”

“Except…” Mary mused, seeming to catch on.

“Except the people employed to do just that,” Sherlock finished quickly, annoyed at being interrupted.

“Lady Smallwood had a communications chief for long range messages; trained in Morse code, shorthand and at least a dozen languages.”

“Deborah,” Lady Smallwood exclaimed with a sad smile. “You’re saying her death had something to do with it?”

“She was murdered for what she knew,” Sherlock told her bluntly. Lady Smallwood took a breath, but otherwise remained stoic. “But the only other person who had frequent access and opportunities was, of course, your PA.”

“What, Vivian!” Lady Smallwood looked genuinely shocked. “But she’s… No!”

“I’m afraid so. Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Impossible. Have you met her?”

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock waved a hand.

“Proof, Sherlock?” Mycroft tapped his foot impatiently.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and stood up straight, glancing imperiously to his brother. “I narrowed down the list of suspects and then correlated all instances in which they had been in the office with messages sent or received with Lady Smallwood’s communications code. There is a pattern: Every time Vivian Norbury accessed the communications grid to send an encoded message in your name,” he nodded to Lady Smallwood, “she sent another one directly afterwards with the same key. To the system, it somehow looked like a copy of the original message, so it got deleted and we therefore cannot reconstruct to whom she was talking. Clever.”

He began pacing a little, lost in his speech. “But that’s what Deborah Lungley must have seen on the tapes. The regularity of the ‘fake’ copies was no coincidence, and she sent the whole thing to Mr Blanchard to have a look at, presumably due to the frequency of messages that passed towards Georgia or the ambassador. Truthfully, this part is conjecture, but it doesn’t really matter. The rest, we know.”

Sherlock had handed the file with Norbury’s personal data to John, and John was ready to provide the support he knew he was supposed to give. He flicked through the folder, whistling briefly at the picture of a very innocent looking elderly lady. “Degree in computer sciences – from the seventies, but nevertheless…” He looked at Lady Smallwood, who swallowed carefully.

“She certainly has the knowledge to do what you describe. She wasn’t just hired to type, you know.” She seemed torn between bristling and mortified at Sherlock’s revelation.

“Well, if that’s the case, perhaps you should have paid her a bit better,” Sherlock quipped icily.

“I beg your pardon?” Suddenly, the room got rather still. Mary held her hand with the last bit of croissant suspended in the air. Mycroft rested his face in his palm for a second. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to John, one questioning eyebrow raised. _Not good?_

John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock pulled a face. “Why do you think she did it, Sherlock?” John’s voice was carefully bland as he tried to diffuse the insult.

“Why does anyone do anything?” Sherlock sighed dramatically and spread his hands. “She lives in London, in a tiny one bedroom flat. Not cheap, but nothing grand. Nothing to grow old in, surely. Five years ago, however, she bought a rather nice cottage in Cornwall. In case you’re not up to speed in this area, the house prices in Cornwall are currently a little over what a PA in the civil service can afford. In addition, due to a legal complication, she gets no money whatsoever from her recently deceased husband. And she has three cats to feed,” he added as an afterthought.

Lady Smallwood stared at Sherlock. “Grow old,” she murmured. “Yes, she did mention she wanted to retire soon. I made jokes about it with her.”

Mary piped up for the first time, affronted. “So you’re saying she ratted AGRA out for _cash_? I hoped for at least some kind of political ploy, but… just _money_ ,” she said with disgust. “Two good people died, and my friend was captured and probably tortured… just so some fucking typist could have a nice retirement cottage?” Mary’s cheeks were flushed, but her entire posture was remarkably calm. John knew that she was probably screaming on the inside, but she had her rage far better under control than John ever did. And even though she seemed calm, John was reminded in that moment that she used to be an assassin, and that perhaps seeing her so calm, yet seething, was a scary thing indeed.

Sherlock studied Mary’s face. “Indeed. Dull,” he said, but he sounded thoughtful, rather than insulting. Mary’s eyes snapped to his, her eyes burning.

“Dull?!”

“Yes. Greed is always a rather dull motivation, don’t you think? There’s lust, power, revenge… but money? So _pedestrian_.”

“Says the man who grew up with money,” John muttered, receiving a frown from Sherlock.

“Well go on then,” John gestured to Mycroft, who was still regarding Sherlock with a thoughtful look. “Arrest her, or whatever it is you do here when you don’t just abduct people.”

\------------------------------------------

A few hours later, John was standing in one of the corridors, glancing out over London through a window he’d found. He’d been meaning to go up through one of those ridiculous all-glass passages, enjoying a bit of freedom of movement; unfortunately, one of Mycroft’s watchers had spotted him and ushered him back to a safer spot.

“Not quite the view you were hoping for?” The velvety voice roused John from his musings.

Sherlock strolled down the corridor and joined him by the window. “No,” he said slowly. “Glad you came looking for me though.”

Sherlock shrugged non-committedly, but John felt him stiffen a little next to him, wary. He’d tried to slowly thread in these small tokens of affection into conversation ever since that night. But so far, he felt like he was running into granite walls every time he tried to approach Sherlock. Every time John tried too obviously, was too warm, smiled too wistfully – Sherlock made a run for it. It was frustrating in the extreme. But what was he to do?

“I guess it’s not a good idea to strut around in a see-through building when there’s a sniper on the loose,” he said.

“Mycroft has been known to make sensible decisions, on occasion,” Sherlock allowed, and John chuckled at the magnanimous tone.

“Any news?”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “She’s gone,” he said. “She must have known it was only a matter of time. But they’re confident there’s not many places she can go.”

“Oh. And Moran?”

“Still at large.”

They stood for a while in silence. “It’s Christmas soon,” John observed.

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Can’t even buy any presents.”

“Mrs Hudson will surely perish if she doesn’t get new oven gloves, John,” Sherlock mocked, deadpan.

John’s eyebrows rose. “Hang on how do you know…? Oh, never mind.” John stared out of the window again, a gloom settling on his shoulders. He sighed. “It’s just… what are we going to do? Are we just going to stay cooped up in here until they catch him? What if it takes weeks?”

“Cheer up,” Sherlock said. “I’ve already spoken to Mycroft. There’s a nice little safe house in France we can go to, it’s all good. If your amenable.” He sounded casual, but John’s ears perked up.

“You want to go to France with me?”

“Why not? I thought you’d like a holiday.”

“Um.”  Thoughts swirled around in John’s mind, imagining Christmas with Sherlock in France; hopelessly romantic visions and archaic images flittered by as if on an old projector. “Yeah, yeah that sounds pretty good, actually,” he swallowed.

“Good,” Sherlock said curtly. “Come along then.”

And John, smiling slightly, followed.

\------------------------------------------

France, unfortunately, was off the table almost as quickly as it had been placed there. John’s face fell when Mycroft told them the news. They’d gone to his office to discuss possible arrangements, and Mycroft had immediately stopped Sherlock short.

“I’m afraid it’s no good, Sherlock. It’s in use. Two of our agents have just gone undercover yesterday. Unexpected, but that’s what these places are maintained for.”

“Well, can’t they move?” Sherlock exclaimed.

“No, they can’t,” Mycroft sighed. “However, I have discussed the situation, and it is clear you can’t stay here indefinitely. There are too many people here, it’s too risky; and we can’t keep you locked up forever,” he said with a deliberate nod to John.

“Hey, don’t mind me, I’ve been through worse,” John said.

Mycroft gave him a look that effectively shut him up even though he didn’t even know what Mycroft was trying to tell him. All he knew was that he felt like a clueless parent and Sherlock was the child that was being got to a nice place for Christmas by a clever application of reverse psychology. It was bewildering in the extreme, being looked at by Mycroft as if they were on the same level. The level where they both had somehow been landed with the responsibility of caring for Sherlock Holmes.

“We need to relocate you somewhere safe within reasonable distance of London.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he became still.

“Somewhere we can keep under surveillance, with a bit of countryside around it.” Mycroft continued, pretending to be oblivious to Sherlock’s change in posture.

“No.”

“Somewhere familiar,” Mycroft drawled, locking eyes with Sherlock.

“Mycroft. _No_.” Sherlock’s voice took on a pleading tone. John ogled them both.

“It seems I have to make a phone call.” Mycroft pulled out his mobile. “Not something I do lightly, you understand.”

“Anything but that, Mycroft. Really. I mean it. This is no joke.”

John stood up, frowning from one brother to the next. “What the hell are you talking about?” They ignored him.

“Of course it isn’t,” Mycroft said coolly. “This is one of the calls I usually avoid at all costs.” He pressed a speed dial button. The phone faintly began ringing in the silence.

John stared at Sherlock, who looked like he was on the brink of a panic attack. “Sherlock, what…?”

The ringing stopped and a woman answered the phone. Mycroft plastered the fakest of happy smiles on his face. “Hello, Mummy!”

\------------------------------------------

John was stuffing his assorted clothes and some of the things Mycroft had thankfully had delivered to them from Baker Street into his bag when there was a knock on the door. He turned and saw Mary, holding out a paper cup with coffee.

He smiled. “Oh! Come in, uh,” he looked around. “There’s nowhere to sit.”

“Not to worry. I’ve been sitting around a lot. Not usually what I do at work,” she said wrily, and John thought that that probably applied to both her professions.

She pressed the paper cup into his hands. “It’s terrible.”

John huffed a laugh and tried a sip. “Oh! Ugh, you’re right. But thanks anyway.”

She simply pushed away a pile of Sherlock’s things and plonked down on his (unused) bed anway. “So.”

“So,” he mimicked, and made some space on his bed to sit down, too.

“I hear you’re spending Christmas at the Holmes’s’?”

John rolled the cup between his palms. “Yes, yeah, it looks like it.” He felt a pang of sympathy and guilt. “What about you…?”

Mary waved a hand. “Oh! Don’t worry about me. Mycroft actually asked me to stay and work on some stuff with him and some board of inquiry or something…”

She sounded nonchalant, but there was a serious undertone in her words. “Oh Christ, he’s not… you know... _prosecuting_ you for something… is he?” He had no idea what was in that file on Mary, he realised. She’d probably done some fairly off-the-records things. She’d probably killed a few people. But then again, so had John.

“What? No,” Mary waved him away again. “No, I think he’s actually, well… finding a way around that. He could probably put me behind bars for parking tickets or something.” She chuckled. “But he knows I know things that can help him. I’m not half-bad at this, you know,” she said with a glint in her eye that John rather liked.

He laughed. “No, I know. Anyone who can elude Mycroft Holmes for several days is a magician in my books.”

She grinned. “Yes, perhaps we will come to some kind of arrangement, who knows.” She hesitated a little again and sipped her coffee. “What about the parents – have you met them yet?”

“Gosh, no,” John huffed. “I didn’t even know he had parents until a few days ago.”

“I know what you mean,” Mary chuckled. “I wonder what they’re like.”

“Apparently, they’re just a regular old retired couple,” he shrugged at Mary’s disbelieving look. “I’ll text you as soon as I dig up any juicy details.”

Mary laughed and suddenly John relaxed. This was actually working, he thought. There was no more awkwardness between them, and he didn’t feel the need to constantly look away or hold himself back, lest she thought he was still trying to flirt with her. But things felt okay and settled all of a sudden, and he was glad to actually have someone else to talk to besides Sherlock – that tended to skew his perspective at times.

As if she had read his thoughts, Mary twinkled at him. “So… you haven’t talked to him yet, then?”

“What? Who?”

“Sherlock.” She twirled her coffee cup, evidently amused by something. “You haven’t told him how you feel about him, then?”

“ _Mary_!” John looked up, nearly dropping his cup, flush rising to his cheeks.

She shrugged and sipped her coffee with a small smirk. “ _What_? You’re incredibly transparent, John.”

John groaned and leaned back on the bed, pressing his eyes shut for a moment. “Yes, well…” He glanced at her from the odd angle. “Not exactly an easy subject to raise with him.”

She smiled. “Hey. Don’t worry so much. That morning he was so jealous I thought he’d throw me out on the spot.”

“Jealous?” Something akin to hope rose within John’s chest.

“Oh yeah,” Mary wriggled her eyebrows. She cocked her head a moment. “Ah, speak of the devil.”

The lock in the door clicked as Sherlock let himself in with his security code. He paused in his tracks immediately. “Mary,” he greeted.

“Don’t worry, I’m going,” she said, amusement still evident in her tone. “Stay in touch, you two. Oh and… Merry Christmas.”

John managed to get up. “You too. Merry Christmas. And keep an eye on Mycroft.” He grinned.

“Will do,” she said and breezed out of the door, tossing her empty cup into the bin as she went.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Sherlock began pulling out his bag. “Have you finished packing?” he asked, his voice carefully emotionless, his posture stiff.

John studied his face a moment. Was this Sherlock being _jealous_? It was really hard to tell, but perhaps Mary had a point. And if she had deduced he was head over heels for Sherlock, then the world’s only consulting detective surely had figured it out, too. Not least after the ball the other night. Perhaps he just needed to be a little more demonstrative.

“No,” he said. He stepped over to Sherlock where he was trying to quickly fold his shirts into some semblance of order. On a whim, John raised his hand and placed it on the small of Sherlock’s back. The touch was deliberate; not on the shoulders, because that might be construed as just a casual gesture of friendship. He wanted to make sure Sherlock knew that this was something different. He felt Sherlock stiffen immediately and John was pretty sure he was holding his breath.

“That makes me still ahead of you. It’s like your stuff has multiplied since we got here,” John said casually, as if the air wasn’t singing between them. As if he wasn’t feeling every minute shift of Sherlock’s muscles under his palm. He brushed his thumb over the shirt a little, revelling in the warmth and familiarity of the living body – a body he was definitely standing too close to. He felt thrilled and bold at his openness, but maybe Sherlock didn’t understand that John had every intention of acting on his feelings. Slowly but surely.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice sounded steady, but perhaps a little quieter and more controlled. “But I don’t spend three hours folding and re-folding every item of clothing I own, John. So I will still be finished before you.”

John hummed his vague assent, still rubbing circles on Sherlock’s back, thoroughly distracted. Perhaps his glorious plan had backfired just a little bit.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice low. It sent shivers down John’s spine. He looked up with a smile, only to find Sherlock’s piercing eyes scrutinising him. It seemed as if Sherlock wanted to say something. A pained look crossed his face for a second and it made John’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t make sense of. “Packing,” he said.

“Right,” John shook himself out of his moment and let his arm drop. Well, _baby steps_ , he thought.

 


	11. Home away from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Christmas days spent with the Holmes Family

 

John darted around the car to grab his bag from the trunk. He locked eyes with their stern-faced, government-issued driver, having beaten him to it. There was much John Watson was prepared to endure at Mycroft’s behest, but he didn’t like to be waited on like this. To his pride, the driver actually quirked a smile and simply nodded before heaving out Sherlock’s travel bag and carrying it to the house.

The two hours’ drive to Hampshire had been very quiet. Sherlock spent most of it either in contemplation, looking out of the window or working on his laptop. As far as John could tell, he was still busy with a new array of spreadsheets, rows upon rows of numbers, prices and dates. None of it immediately made sense to John when he caught a glimpse, and Sherlock didn’t explain. So John alternated between gazing at Sherlock with a sorrowful heart and staring at the countryside as the morning wore on.

They had finally stopped in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Somehow, the lack of huge buildings and thousands of people on a single street created an additional absence of warmth; for the first time in months, John felt like he could really feel the air and the coldness surrounding him. He zipped up his jacket tightly and wished he had a scarf, but other than that, the cold was wonderfully bracing. His feet crunched in the gravel of the path. John was glad to stretch his legs again, and he breathed the clean air with weighty relief. He waited until Sherlock joined him and finally looked him in the eyes for the first time in what seemed like hours. “You can still back out.” There was something vaguely worried in his eyes.

John let out a laugh and felt the tension ease a little. “Why would I do that?”

Sherlock grimaced. “My parents… well.”

“What? Peaceful retirement in Hampshire, you told me – and here we are. I’m not missing this for the world.” John thought it sounded rather as if he had simply been invited over for Christmas by the Holmes family – he wished it was true, and the circumstances less dire.

Sherlock sighed like a condemned man and shrugged. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he added darkly.

John snickered and followed him up the path to the house.

The building was not huge, but a decent size considering it only contained one retired couple. It was neat and robust looking; fairy lights had been strung up over the door and around a small fir tree in the front garden. Morning fog still curled around the plants and fences, making the orange glow coming from the windows look even more inviting.

Just before they reached the door, it was flung open from inside. A woman with white hair and a large shawl wrapped around her shoulders appeared and beamed at them both. “Sherlock! Oh thank goodness!” She closed the distance between them and enveloped him in a firm, motherly hug. After a moment, John noticed she wasn’t letting go, but neither was Sherlock. His eyes were closed and it seemed like he was taking a deep breath. His mother seemed to be battling with tears, but after a firm sniff, she pulled herself together. “Oh,” she exclaimed, smiling at him lovingly with a slightly wobbly lip, quite too overcome to say anything else. And then Sherlock gently squeezed her arms that still clasped his shoulders and smiled at her, touched and a bit unsteady. John’s heart gave a painful lurch and he felt like he was intruding.

“It’s good to see you.” Mrs Holmes finally let go of Sherlock with one last fond nod, then swallowed and turned. “And you too, Dr. Watson! We’re so glad you’re both here.” She came forward and before John could stop her, he was wrapped in her embrace as well.

He carefully returned the hug, smiling at Sherlock over her shoulder. “John, please Mrs. Holmes,” he began, and as she let go she beamed at him.

“Of course,” she sniffed. “Call me Margaret, or Mummy – everyone else around here does!”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Margaret,” John smiled, and she gave him a fond look with a twinkle in her eye. “Oh, you’re a charmer, aren’t you? I can tell from the stories on your blog. And he never tells us enough, so you’ll have to make up for that now!”

With that, she bustled back, waving at them to follow, and John exchanged a happy little smile with Sherlock, who seemed, after all, glad to be home. In the hall, they dropped their bags and Sherlock indicated a coat rack. John took off his jacket and gave Sherlock a look, suddenly frowning in thought. “Sherlock…” he asked, carefully. “The night Mary and I were attacked… that was the day you’d come back to London, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, looking up carefully.

“So… this is the first time your mother has seen you since…”

“Yes.”

John sighed heavily, processing. “Good. That’s... good. I’m glad we’re here, then.”

Sherlock merely nodded and swallowed a little heavily. Then he led the way into the house.

“Be a dear and take these to your rooms, Sherlock.” Mummy appeared in the hallway, indicating the bag that the two of them had just dropped. She wrapped an arm around John and before he could protest or help, he was ushered into a comfortable kitchen. “Tell Father to put the kettle on, will you?”

Sherlock could be heard grumbling something about not being a servant in his own house, Mummy was scolding and laughing and John heard them both go upstairs. He smiled, breathing in the homely atmosphere. He turned to look around the kitchen and found a tall, white-haired man standing by the window, peering out through the flowery curtains. He was wearing a comfy knit cardigan and held what were probably reading glasses suspended in one hand.

The man turned half-way, acknowledging him with a smile. John was startled, for a moment, because that was Sherlock’s smile he saw, though mellowed with age and full of kindness. “It’s good to see somebody real,” he said, his deep voice crinkled with amusement. He peered out of the window again.

John followed the unspoken invitation and joined him. Looking out, he saw another few houses along the country road, steam curling up from chimneys. An old woman was sitting by a window, knitting or reading; a man was raking together twigs and leaves that littered his lawn. A car went by.

John glanced at Mr. Holmes, his eyebrows raised in question. The man chuckled, and once again John was reminded of his son. “Mycroft has stationed so many bloody security people around us, I don’t think any of the actual locals are left.”

“What—?“ John let out a startled laugh and looked outside again. And yes, the old woman in the other house seemed to peer up from her knitting only to glance right at them.

“I’ve lived here for fifteen years and I’ve never seen that woman before.”

“Huh. I wonder what happened to the people who do live here,” John mused, studying the man in the garden. They sure did look convincing to the naked eye, he had to give Mycroft credit for that.

“When it comes to my firstborn’s shenanigans, I’ve learned not to ask.” Mr. Holmes pulled a rueful grimace. John immediately decided that he liked the man.

They looked out of the window a bit longer. “It’s like living inside a theatre performance,” he finally added. “But as long as it keeps us all safe.”

He finally turned to John properly. “Oh, I do apologize. John.” He held out a hand. “It’s lovely to finally meet you. I’m Richard, by the way.”

John took his hand and held the man’s gaze for a moment. There was kindness and firmness there, and John thought he saw something of the shape of Sherlock’s eyes. However, Sherlock had something else as well, a sharpness, a keen edge of wit and intelligence that struck you even before he opened his mouth.

“It’s good to meet the man who’s keeping an eye on our boy.”

“Oh,” John faltered a little. “Well. He keeps an eye out for me, really.” He looked away as their hands dropped. Richard merely hummed his agreement and left it at that.

\-----------------

Sherlock heaved their bags up the stairs and trudged towards the bedrooms. He first entered the guest room, a small, functional affair done in unassuming colours, a single bed in one corner, a chest of drawers on the opposite wall. He dropped John’s bag on the bed and continued to his old room next door. It was mostly how he left it last time he had been in his parents’ house. The ceiling stains from his teenage chemistry experiments had long been painted over, the wallpaper replaced, some of the furniture rearranged. One shelf still contained lots of old books that he hadn’t been bothered to take with him. A new desk was under the window, as the old one had been near death after the amount of stuff Sherlock had exploded, burned or welded on it. However, his large bed was still there, and Mummy had made it up with the nice dark blue sheets she knew he liked.

He dropped his bag on the floor, took off his suit jacket and threw it over the chair and then let himself keel over face-first into the mattress. He breathed in the comforting smell of his mother’s laundry powder and just relaxed. He was loath to admit it, and he would certainly never tell Mycroft, but he was glad to be at home. It wasn’t _home_ like Baker Street had become home, but it was still a home nonetheless. It felt safe and secure, for now.

He didn’t kid himself; the Work would go on. Sherlock had a good idea already where Vivian Norbury had buggered off to, it was simply a matter of narrowing it down enough before he went after her and Moran. Mycroft’s people had been dismayed to find all traces of her, her cottage or her accounts vanished from their systems. And Sherlock wondered just how many of Moriarty’s old strings were still being pulled by these people in his former spider’s web. So now Mycroft expected him and John to just hide out in the middle of nowhere, enjoying _Christmas_ of all things, whilst his people blundered around, trying to solve the case. And that, of course, would not do.

However, there was the matter of his parents to consider. And John. Sherlock dearly did not wish to upset his mother, knowing full well how the whole ordeal of his fake death had worried her. He also realised that John had truly looked happy to be here, really relaxing for the first time in days. And John’s wellbeing was suddenly important, paramount even. Anything was worth doing if it meant John looked a little more alive than he did before. And it was doing things to Sherlock, seeing him like that, realising he was the reason John was smiling again.

The way John looked at him now, it was unmistakeable. Even Sherlock, surprised as he had been by this development, could no longer ignore it. And John himself had finally realised it, it seemed. He kept touching him, giving him long looks, trying to inch a little bit closer every day. The intimacy between them had grown so quickly to much more than what it had been before the Fall. It felt a little like all the air had been pressed from his lungs in a forceful choke, and now that they were released, the air rushed back in to compensate without almost no doing on his part.

It was painful in a strangely appealing way, strangely exhilarating in its inevitability. Sherlock groaned into the pillows. None of these thoughts made any sense, and yet he couldn’t stop musing on the situation, on John, on their lives together. He knew something had to come to a head very soon, and decisions would be made… and no matter what, they’d never be able to go back to the way things were. Sherlock felt absolutely terrified, not knowing whether this was a good idea at all, or if he even had any say in the matters of his heart at all.

\-----------------------------------

Their first day in Hampshire passed quietly and comfortably. They had some tea, unpacked, and then Sherlock showed John the house. Mummy and Father left them alone for the most part to get settled in, but Sherlock also made a point of speaking to his mother whenever the chance presented itself, and she seemed to appreciate that.

During dinner, John coaxed story after story about Sherlock and Mycroft’s childhood from his parents – mostly Father – and was delighted and amused by every single thing he heard. Sherlock, despite his grumbling, couldn’t help but shoot subtle glances his way, mapping the small wrinkles at John’s eyes and the exact tilt of his head when he laughed. At some point, he caught Mummy’s gaze and quickly looked away as she gave him a fond, knowing look. Oh, it was bad enough with Mycroft dissecting him so easily, but of course she did it, too. Thankfully, she did it without the sneering comments.

After dinner, they retired to the living room and glasses of good Scotch were passed to everyone. John fulfilled Mummy’s previous hope and told them a bit more of their adventures in the past; soon, though, the closer he got to Moriarty and the Fall, the less amused and the more sombre he became. Mummy seemed to realise that, but she gently pressed him a bit more until John reluctantly told them how he had helped clear Sherlock’s name after his ‘death’.

Predictably, Mummy choked up at that, and even Father’s eyes became moist, and that made John’s already faltering voice stop so he could collect himself. Sherlock stared at all of them, simultaneously annoyed and overwhelmed by three people obviously caring so much about something he himself cared so little about. He had wanted to say something scathing, and it lay already on his tongue; but when he caught sight of John’s eyes something in his heart melted a little, shutting him up.

Finally, Mummy realised that this perhaps wasn’t a good line of small-talk to continue, so she abruptly challenged Sherlock to a game of chess and effectively ended the conversation. John went to the bathroom and came back much calmer and accepted another glass of scotch from Father.

Sherlock welcomed the distraction of chess. He tried to zone in on the game, content in the knowledge that his mother was an excellent player and he didn’t need to pull his punches as when he’d played against John. On the other side of the living room, Father pulled out an old battered copy of Scrabble, wriggling his eyebrows at John. “You’re a writer, John,” he said. “Care to see how you do against the king of crosswords?” John laughed – again, that carefree chuckle that Sherlock had missed so much – and they settled down for a rather silly, slightly inebriated version of the game. As it turned out, it was rather difficult to play chess successfully and listen to the exact number of John’s giggles at the same time. Mummy was wiping the floor with him, Sherlock noted. After a while, Sherlock became so distracted by the casual banter by the table that he basically stopped moving his pieces altogether. Mummy let him, watching her husband and John as well with an amused smile.

“Propolis – that’s 62 points! Ha!” Father laughed and noted his points.

John grinned. “Beekeeping terms! You got me at a disadvantage there, Richard.”

Sherlock smiled and thought how nice it was to see John get along with his parents. Him calling them by their first names was charming, he had to admit.

“But two can play at that game, sir. I got hellishly lucky with my letters and you just provided the extra ‘L’ I needed, thank you very much.” John placed all of his letters down on the board.

“Glabella? What’s that?” Father peered closely at the board with his reading glasses perched on his nose.

John pressed his finger into the flat space between his eyebrows. “This!” He laughed and took the scoring sheet. “That’s… 89 points, bloody hell. Totally worth two years of memorising Latin names in medical school,” he noted with a flourish and took another sip of Scotch.

Father pushed up his glasses on his nose and peered critically at letters he’d just pulled from the bag. He made a resigned noise. “Remind me never to play with a doctor again, dear?”

Mummy twinkled at him. “When you said he was a writer I thought you might have forgotten his actual profession,” she quipped.

“Don’t worry,” John reassured Father. “Happens to everyone. They all think I’m just some unemployed loser who follows a famous detective around. I’ve gotten used to it.”

Suddenly, the sitting room stilled. John looked up and found the whole Holmes family staring at him. Sherlock felt something in his heart twist a little as he saw John blink and realise how bitter and resigned he had just sounded. He squared his jaw and straightened, a move Sherlock had seen plenty of times when John was upset or worried.

“John.” Mummy was the first to find her voice. “Even if you weren’t a doctor, we hope you know how much it means to us that you… that there’s someone.”

Sherlock felt his face heat. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from John, feeling indignation and anger and a sheer hatred for whoever it was that thought John, _his brilliant John_ , could possibly be a _loser_ in any way. What else had he missed when he was away?

John looked touched, but also incredibly uncomfortable all of a sudden. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I—Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a cynic. But—I think I’m gonna turn in now. Dead on my feet. Good night everybody.” He quickly got up, sent another apologetic glance at Father and then retreated.

Sherlock waited one minute and twenty three seconds, during which Mummy was watching him closely. Then he jumped up. “Yes, me too, actually,” he said and stooped to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Thanks for the game. Good night.” He felt her infuriatingly understanding gaze on his back, but he didn’t care. All that he needed was John, John, John, to tell him what utter imbeciles other people were.

He found John in his room, pulling out pyjamas and toiletries from his bag. He quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the small space feeling instantly crowded.

“Sherlock?” John looked up, a little startled, his eyes tired.

“I just—“ Sherlock stared at him intently and stalled. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say, exactly. He saw the lost expression on John’s face and decided to go with his guts, for once. He gently touched John’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes.

“You’re not a loser, John.”

“I—I know,” John mumbled, looking embarrassed.

“I know I never say this, because I’m bad with saying stuff and, and--- you know. But you really do help. And you’re good with suspects and children and old ladies and the bereaved and managed to clear my name and—“ Sherlock realised he was rambling a mile a minute. “And you once shot a man for me, John, nobody’s ever done _that_ before.”

John blinked at him, a smile tugging at his mouth. He cleared his throat again and looked away. “You know I wasn’t fishing,” he looked back up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “But it sure is nice to hear you say these things. Thank you.”

Sherlock breathed. “I—um. Just don’t become cynical, John, it’s bad enough if one person in this—“ he caught himself just before the word _relationship_ tumbled from his lips, “—if one of us is cynical as hell.”

John huffed a laugh. “I guess you’re right.” He thought for a moment. “I guess it’s my own fault, really,” he sighed and sat down on the bed. “I always described how brilliant you are and never mentioned the medical aspects of the cases. It just kind of seemed… _vain_ to me.”

“Hm,” Sherlock made, narrowing his eyes at him. “Are you saying that I need to have a blog now in which I write about you?”

John hastily shook his head. “Please don’t. You’re nice now, but the next time I say something stupid, the blog would just be you ranting about small brains and insufferable idiots!”

Sherlock smirked. “Idiot maybe, but a very sufferable one.”

They both laughed, and the heavy atmosphere between them finally dissipated.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock found he was still studying John’s eyes, not sure how to get out of the conversation – or the room.

“I’m going to hug you now, and then I’m going to brush my teeth and go to bed. Okay?”

Sherlock huffed. God, he must come across as really unapproachable if John felt the need to ask if he could hug him. Then again, Sherlock wasn’t exactly a _hugger_. It also appeared that he wanted to put Sherlock at ease, let him know he wasn’t going to try anything more than that. Sherlock was surprised to note that it worked – he felt at ease. And suddenly, it was easy. He smiled and stepped forward to embrace John.

Strong arms encased his torso, John’s warm hands splayed out on his back, John’s head on his shoulder. Sherlock felt John’s soft hair tickle his nose and he breathed in deeply. A sigh of relief rippled through both their bodies. This was somehow different than the confusing, heated moments they’d shared before; this was so, so _comforting_. It went a long way, Sherlock felt, to ease the gulf that sometimes appeared between them whenever the subject of Sherlock’s absence came up.

Finally, John let go, gave him one last thank you nod and then grabbed his pyjamas and toiletries again. They stepped out, John disappearing in the direction of the bathroom, Sherlock retreating to his room.

That night, he lay on the bed a long while, sorting through things in his mind palace, as sleep eluded him as usual.

\----------------------------

The next morning, Sherlock stood by the terrace door, watching the garden slowly become lighter. He’d been up all night, trying to work things out, but thoughts of John kept interfering. He replayed the hug in his mind a dozen times, concentrating how warm and compact and nice it had felt to hold John. He’d tried to work on the housing price spreadsheets some more, but his heart wasn’t in it.

When the light had slowly dipped across the meadow and the morning dew was shining in the winter sun, Sherlock felt a hand on his back. Mummy had come downstairs, as silent on her feet as Sherlock. She leaned into him, rubbing his back, her small form a comforting weight against his arm. Sherlock swallowed and put an arm around her, and they stood there for a long while, looking out at the garden. He was glad that she understood him so well, out of all of them. She didn’t need to say anything. He knew exactly what she was telling him.

Sherlock settled in a chair and watched the house come to life. He helped make breakfast, something that seemed to amuse John to no end. Father got out one of last summer’s honey pots for breakfast. John was delighted. He spread it liberally on his toast and bit into it with relish. Sherlock nearly choked on his tea as he watched, already committing the look on John’s face to memory. Some honey dripped down his lip and he licked it off quickly. Suddenly that image combined in his head with the sensation of the rather intimate hug the night before, and Sherlock had to look away.

“This is amazing, Richard, thank you,” John looked positively gleeful as he devoured the rest of his toast. Sherlock made a mental note to bring lots of his father’s honey back to Baker Street with them.

Father laughed. “Don’t thank me, though I do keep the bees. Thank Sherlock; he’s the one who’s been badgering me about it! He told me how much you loved honey.”

John looked up across the table, his face softening in an instant, gazing at Sherlock as if the sun had just risen on him. Sherlock felt his cheeks heat and he buried his face in his mug. “Yeah, well, we’ve been living together for a while, bound to pick up things,” he mumbled unintelligibly into his tea.

John chuckled and didn’t say anything, but that fond look didn’t leave his face.

During the morning, Sherlock and Father showed John the wintery garden and the bees, seeing as John had expressed an interest in it.

“So my job as the beekeeper is to make sure they actually have enough honey during the winter,” Father explained, walking past the neat row of bee hives. Their roofs were covered in frost, but inside, the stirring and buzzing of the swarm.

“So you actually have to feed the bees their own honey?” John had his hands clasped behind his back and looked a bit like the Captain inspecting his troops. Sherlock’s lips curled at the sight.

“Well,” he decided to join the conversation. “Ideally, you left the bees enough honey in the first place. But you can add more if it’s not enough.”

John gave him a look. “I thought your father was the beekeeper here?” Amusement danced in his eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m used to my sons always picking up any subject they put their mind to with ludicrous speed,” Father said, walking on. “I’ve long stopped bemoaning the fact that I’m basically the moron of the family.” For a moment, Sherlock was worried that John might resent the attitude , but Father laughed good-naturedly, and John thankfully took it the right way and laughed along. “Don’t I know the feeling,” he muttered and shared a knowing look with him, nodding at Sherlock.

They turned their backs and walked on, whilst Sherlock was suddenly rooted to the spot. Something about that gesture, about the way he said it… something had shocked and rattled him and made him feel that ominous fondness again, but why…? His thoughts raced through their words again.

Oh. _Oh_. _… the family,_ Father said. John had agreed. _John thought they were a family, too_.

He suddenly felt hot under his collar and the irrational urge to hold John again bubbled traitorously in his chest. He valiantly swallowed and tried to keep up. Father kept explaining the intricacies of beekeeping, but Sherlock was only half-listening; half of his attention was focussed on watching John, cataloguing the fact that they were, apparently, not only best friends, but _family_ into the Watson wing in his mind palace.

\----------------------------------------

After this, the whole day was a trial for Sherlock’s mind. He tried working on locating Norbury’s house, he reviewed some files for Mycroft, but it was tedious work. What was less tedious, all of a sudden, was watching John helping Mummy baking cookies. He had his sleeves rolled up, his strong, capable hands covered in flour, kneading the dough. The images that sprang unbidden to Sherlock’s mind at that were decidedly not kitchen-appropriate, yet he couldn’t look away. John caught his look a few times with a hopeful spark in his eyes, and perhaps that was why he volunteered to be in charge of the next two doughs as well. John was too observant, Sherlock decided, but enjoyed the display despite himself.

They went for a short walk later, amusing themselves with trying to spot who was ‘real’ and who was an employee of Mycroft’s. One older couple greeted Sherlock warmly and John forced him to stop and make small talk.

“ _William_ , we heard your mother say that you hadn’t died _after all_ , and we were _so glad_ to hear it!”

“It’s _Sherlock_ ,” he managed between gritted teeth.

“How awfully clever of you!”

“We always thought so, didn’t we dear?” The man leaned over to Sherlock. “When this one was still a teenager, he used to cause the most awful calamities, let me tell you—“

“Oh but he did solve the mystery of Mr. Stephens’ missing dog, didn’t you William?”

Sherlock’s teeth began to hurt. John, on the other hand, had his lips pressed together tightly to keep from laughing.

“Oh, and he loved the dog, he wouldn’t be parted from him after that, do you remember?”

“Yes thank you for the reminiscing it has been lovely but we’re really busy and late for a meal so don’t let us keep you Merry Christmas,” Sherlock rattled without pausing for breath, simultaneously grabbing John’s hand. He pulled hard as he strode away, dragging John with him whether he wanted to or not. John hastily said goodbye and stumbled after him, laughing.

“Definitely Mycroft’s,” Sherlock hissed. “Very convincing, I’ll admit, but I’ve never seen these people before in my life.”

“Oh really? So you never solved the case of the missing dog? Never had a dog, in fact?”

Sherlock frowned down at him and sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I didn’t own him. He merely hung out with me when he felt like it.”

For some reason, this made John laugh even more.

They walked back to the house and only when they parted at the door did Sherlock realise that John had kept hold of his hand the entire way.

\----------------------------------

The day was full of these little instances, and Sherlock, to his chagrin, was unexpectedly happy. Yet during quiet moments, he became thoughtful again, trying to reign himself in, to concentrate, but to no avail. Finally, he decided to simply call it a night to calm his frayed nerves. But it seemed fate had seen fit to intervene once more before the day was out.

He stood in his room, getting ready to put on his pyjamas and head to the bathroom. He thought John was still up downstairs, chatting to Mummy about that book she wrote ages ago. Sherlock had slipped away, hoping to avoid any more sentimental or tempting situations.

He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off his shoulders, throwing it over the bed. Suddenly, he heard a small gasp behind him. He froze. He didn’t even need to turn around to see John standing in the half-open door, his hand poised to knock, staring at his back. In fact, he didn’t think he was physically able to turn around. His heart was suddenly desperately trying to fight its way out of his ribcage. He just stood there, his head turned partly to the side; he could make out John’s slow movement across the room.

“Sherlock…” John’s whispered voice was closer now. Sherlock still hadn’t moved. Only when he felt John in his personal space did he flinch a little. “John, don’t.”

“Oh my God.”

Suddenly, the situation became more real when John grabbed his arms from behind and tugged him gently towards the bed, sitting them both down. Sherlock still did not turn around, afraid to say or do anything wrong. This had been inevitable, he knew.

He shivered as he felt fingertips ghost over the scars. However, John surprised him when he began probing and examining his shoulders more closely – his touch became surer, more like a doctor, less shocked.

“When?” His voice was composed as he checked each gash.

Sherlock sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” It wasn’t really a question.

“No.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling John’s hands shift with the movement, and he resigned himself to the situation. “Not long before I came back,” he said. “Serbia.”

“How?”

“I—“ Sherlock swallowed, his shoulders sagging as he remembered. “I was captured investigating a drug smuggling ring. One of the biggest under Moriarty. I was a bit careless and they outnumbered me.”

“How long?”

 “I was there barely a week before the cavalry came to my rescue.” He couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice.

“Mycroft?”

“He felt that I’d done all I could there. He was wrong.”

John winced a little. “And what did you do, besides _getting whipped_?” His voice was sharper now. Angry.

Sherlock finally turned, half-facing John with an intense look. “They were incredibly easy to manipulate, John. I would eventually have gotten enough inside knowledge from each of my captors to put the entire organisation behind bars for the rest of their lives,” he said with vigour. “Including their leader.” His eyes searched John’s for a moment. “Moran.”

John’s eyes widened. Sherlock nodded and his nostrils flared in anger and self-reproach. “Exactly. If I had finished my job there, none of this would have happened.”

“You don’t know that,” John replied darkly.

“I would have gotten to him, John.”

“You could have been killed!”

“I—“ He stopped. John’s eyes were blazing at him, daring him to say another word. He couldn’t.

“The next time I see Mycroft, I’ll have to thank him.”

“John—“ Sherlock frowned, annoyed.

“No, shut up. Shut. Up.” A soft hand was placed on his back again, gently caressing the healing scars. “Don’t you dare defend this. I won’t say anything more, Sherlock.” His name rolled so softly off John’s tongue that he felt goose bumps rise all over his skin.

“But I want you to know that I would never trade your safety for my own in a million years. Okay? We’ll be all right. We’ll catch this lunatic. Together.” John’s jaw was set. “And if he makes one more move on you, I’ll show him what a crack shot I am, you hear me?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, he felt too warm. The room was too small. The space between them too tight with tension. John with his _Captain voice_ , his hands all over his skin, his loyal eyes boring into his, saying _I killed for you once, I’ll do it again if I have to._

And Sherlock finally had his answer. He was utterly, devastatingly in love with John.

He stared and stared some more, drinking in the realisation. Finally, John gave his back one last slow stroke that made Sherlock’s eyelids flutter nervously. “When we’re back home, I’ll get you something for the scars,” he murmured softly. “Seeing as they’re so…,” his breath caught momentarily “…fresh, um, you can treat them. They’ll become invisible over time.”

Sherlock wanted to tell him that he never looked at his own back and didn’t care. He wanted to tell him to stop talking and start kissing. He wanted to slap himself for even suggesting that to himself. He wanted John to stop looking at him like he hoped to look at Sherlock’s back more often in the future. He also wanted John to never stop looking at him like that.

“Right,” John got up. “I’m sorry I—“ He looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock wondered whether he could see the rising panic beneath the calm exterior. “No scratch that, I’m not sorry I barged in. I’m glad I know now.” His fist clenched a couple of times. “I’ll let you get on. Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock still sat there, mumbling _good night_ long after John was safely in his room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I googled/learned for this chapter:  
> \- “What Do Bees Do in Winter?”  
> \- Apiary Glossary  
> \- “weird names for body parts”  
> \- Fake scrabble board (to get the points approximately right)  
> \- Hampshire  
> \- Everyone’s respective age  
> \- Popular British baby names with “M.L.” in 1949 (Mummy's full name in this fic is now Margaret Lynda Holmes. Hope you like.)
> 
> I had so much fun with this chapter. Ain’t writing wonderful? <3  
> (Also I started writing another fluffy one-shot to help me overcome some writing block I experienced and it worked and got my juices flowing again to finish this fic - go check it out!)


	12. Familial Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock figures out the issue - and then proceeds to emphatically avoid it.

There was the whole story, laid out like a tapestry of inevitable defeat. The story of how Sherlock Holmes fell in love.

It began a few short years ( _almost no time at all_ ) ago when a man he’d barely met killed to save his life. But not from a gunshot or a stabbing or some other nefarious act; no, John had saved him from himself.

This … _feeling_ that had sowed its seed that night and had been steadily growing despite Sherlock’s best intentions was now an overpowering force in his body. It was more than just physical desire, more than just _affection_. It was suddenly as natural as breathing to him (yet not half as boring). Now that Sherlock had acknowledged and identified what it was that plagued him, he knew that this was no simple matter to deal with. No, this was probably the hardest case he’d ever try to solve.

It was not only a matter he had to resolve for himself. _John_ … John needed some kind of closure. He needed to know where he was at, preferably in as plain terms as possible. It was a mystery to Sherlock why John was so affected by him, so ardently attached. But he suddenly felt like he would happily spend the rest of his life finding out. And that… that was a complicated thought.

But Sherlock was a genius and complicated thoughts were definitely his area. He had already whittled it down to two choices: either John stayed or John left. The complicated part was finding out which actions and words would lead to these results. If he gave in and let himself have some kind of relationship with John, would that work? Would John simply stay until they grew old? The thought made something warm bloom in his chest again, imagining John with grey hair, his smile a little more wrinkled… Or, perhaps, they would enter into some kind of misguided affair and things would quickly turn nasty when John remembered needing certain things that Sherlock was unable to give. For lack of experience, he couldn’t quite say what that might be, only that he knew that he was, by all accounts, _weird_ and _different;_ and while that was fine by him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to (nor want to) conform to normal expected relationship parameters. Oh, he could sham it, of course – but John would know. And then he’d leave. Despite John’s devotion, Sherlock still believed that to be the most likely outcome.

The alternative was to let it be. Let John get over his attachment; let them go back to their previous status quo. Then things might not be as fulfilling in certain respects, but their friendship would be safe from harm. _But then let him find a girlfriend, a wife, another Mary_ , Sherlock’s subconscious offered, and he felt the cold twist of jealousy in his guts. He remembered John, on the sofa back at Baker Street, putting his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Looking into his eyes. _I have everything I want in my life._ Was that only talk? Would John really resign himself to no other companionship, pining after a man he couldn’t have? That thought suddenly produced a certain sense of melancholy. John was a good man, a man who should be loved and cared for. He deserved no less. _Why not from me?_

Another sigh of frustration escaped Sherlock’s lips. He was running in circles, returning to the same argument over and over again. He needed to stop thinking about it and think about the case instead. Before they were safe, anything else was somewhat secondary (even though his current unwanted arousal told him otherwise). Sherlock growled, annoyed, and briskly jumped out of bed. He showered cold, dressed as impeccably as he could, and ventured down to the sitting room. He decided to skip the family breakfast altogether, especially when he heard John and Mummy’s warm laughter echo though the corridor. No, he needed to be alone to get more work done. He nearly had this, after all.

\------

In his absorption, Sherlock completely missed the next surprise for Christmas until it was standing right in front of him. Mycroft had arrived, and for some reason he’d brought Mary.

Sherlock blinked at them standing in the living room – Mycroft looking snarky as always, even at home, and Mary glancing around curiously, as if every piece of furniture gave her more clues about the peculiar Holmes family.

“Merry Christmas, brother mine.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Mummy chose this moment to bustle in from the doorway. “Sherlock! Be nice! Mycroft, love, Father is making tea.”

Sherlock snorted a little at hearing their mother’s endearment and he caught Mary lowering her chin to hide a smile. Mycroft only smiled genially. “Wonderful.”

“Where do you want these, Margaret?” John’s voice drifted in from the hall. With a jolt, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the clock on the mantle. It had long since become afternoon and he hadn’t spoken to John all day. He had a vague idea that he may have said something to him as he’d sat thinking and working, but he hadn’t registered it. Well, John certainly knew these kinds of moments well enough to bother about it. And yet… Sherlock suddenly realised that _he_ was bothered by it. He had _missed_ simply talking to John at least once today.

Mummy went back to talk to John. “Oh you’re a dear. Myc’ will take his old room of course and we’re going to have to put Mary in the guest room. That means you’ll have to shack up with Sherlock for a few nights, I’m afraid.” Sherlock felt a jolt go down his spine and he saw a quick glint in Mycroft’s eyes as he noticed it. He wondered whether Mummy, much like everyone else, had given John a suggestive look at that.

“No problem,” John’s voice said faintly, and from this distance it was impossible to gauge the inflection he put on his words. Was he annoyed? Indifferent? _Nervous_? The creaking of stairs told him that he’d gone to place the intruders’ luggage in their respective rooms and move his own things around. He felt another stab of annoyance at the fact that John had evidently just carried _Mycroft’s_ belongings upstairs as well, and the thought of John doing any kind of servile job like this for his brother was bothersome to say the least.

“Well?” Sherlock managed, narrowing his eyes back at Mycroft.

Mycroft raised a delicate eyebrow. “Can’t a man spend Christmas with his family without being harried about it?”

Mary snorted a laugh and walked over to them, glancing up at Mycroft’s tall form next to her. “He felt that keeping me _at his place_ was too much of a liability,” she informed Sherlock with a smirk that Sherlock couldn’t help but appreciate. The subtle inference, playing as if she was some kind of woman of his (entirely _not_ his area) was making Mycroft bristle ever so slightly and that alone was satisfying. Despite having resolved to dislike her, Sherlock found that she kept surprising him. Damn the woman. No wonder John had gone out with her.

“So why aren’t you just dropping Mary off?”

“Let’s just say as your brother I felt responsible to keep an eye on the three of you personally this time.”

Now Sherlock was the one to laugh. As if Mycroft would be able to stop them from leaving if they felt like it. “What are you going to do, defend us with your little sword if Moran comes looking?”

Mycroft took this in stride. “If I have to,” he said with an amused air. “Now, I believe we were promised tea.” He beckoned Mary to follow as he turned to go to the kitchen. And just as their voices became quieter in the corridor, Sherlock heard him add, “you know when he was little, he actually loved the sword,” and Mary giggled in response.

Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and shoved it onto the couch table. His fingers were itching to do something, anything, to distract him from this new intrusion into the already complicated situation. He could really do with a smoke. Or perhaps a little axe murder to lighten things up. He knew John had brought his gun, but it wouldn’t do to waste the bullets shooting the walls no matter how irritated he was. (Also, Mummy would kill him if he damaged her wallpaper.) Finally, he went and fetched his coat, pulled on his gloves, and went to the garden. He stomped across the lawn, the frozen grass crunching underfoot, until he reached the shed. He plonked himself noisily down on the bench in front of it, looking out over the field that stretched beyond the house, and simply breathed in the cold air for a while. He knew he had no cigarettes in any pockets (constant vigilance on John’s part ensured it) but he rummaged through them anyway, just to give his hands something to do.

He only sat for a few minutes before his ears were completely frozen and his backside ached from sitting on the cold, hard wood. Yet going inside seemed unacceptable at this point. Luckily, help arrived in the form of his father.

“Sherlock,” he called out as he came walking across the lawn, rubbing his gloved hands together. “You got some time to help me?”

Sherlock got up and gave his father a thorough once-over. “Your back’s been acting up again. You’re fetching firewood, but would be happy if I took over chopping some more.”

Father laughed and waggled a finger at him. “Quite right, genius,” he said fondly and continued to the shed. Sherlock smirked. He had to admit, he loved his parents. They were overbearing and annoying and frustratingly into terrible musicals, but—as parents went, they were all right. He remembered telling John about them and how amused he had been to hear they weren’t super villains. John was such a romantic.

Sherlock took his coat off and hung it on a peg inside the shed. Without further need to talk, they began stacking pieces of wood in an old wicker basket. Sherlock regarded his father, with his heavy knitted jumper and that _quietness_ and thought that his mother had been in luck to find him. She was the brilliant one in the family, her sharp wit and scientific curiosity passed on tenfold to Mycroft and Sherlock. His father often referred to himself as ‘the moron’ of the family, even if that was only ever applicable by the unfair comparison. Yet when Sherlock looked at his father, he felt something completely different respond in himself. There was that quietness, too; that purely emotional, non-rational sense of understanding that Sherlock felt growing in his mind since his return. He really had changed – in a way that seemed to have scrambled his insides and dug up feelings and ideas and characteristics from the very bottom of his soul, from his very genes, and dragged them into the light.

Somehow, the thought that there was something of his father’s personality in him somewhere, steadying him, was infinitely calming.

“Thank you,” Father said, when they were done collecting. “Have fun.”

Sherlock smiled and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. When his father left, he picked up the old axe. He felt much better now, actually, and murdering his brother would – once again – have to wait. He went back outside and grabbed a large wood piece from a pile next to the shed to line up on the chopping block. The wintery air was prickling on his skin. He raised the axe over his head and let it crash down to split the log with a satisfying crack.

After quite a few swings, he was sweating enough to render the cold air rather pleasant. The work was straining his arms, but he welcomed the physical effort. With each chop, each breath of cold air, his world became simpler and simpler. He would solve the case – _chop_ – everyone  would be safe – _chop_ –  and they would go home. _Chop_. Things would return to normal. And perhaps, then, he could examine his newfound feelings for John a bit closer, perhaps he could find a middle ground between the two extreme possibilities? He lowered the axe and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

Almost as if his eyes strayed to follow his thoughts, Sherlock looked up. He saw the kitchen window from where he stood, and he saw John, looking out at him. He was holding a mug, and if Sherlock’s eyes were not deceiving him entirely, he appeared rather _captivated_. Sherlock thought about how he must look, glancing down at his sweat-covered body, chopping wood for Christ’s sake. It was almost textbook, wasn’t it? He chuckled and locked eyes with John, who smirked back. A happy jolt went through Sherlock. He glanced at the pile of chopped wood pieces and decided he’d done enough. He was suddenly itching to see John, to speak to him, to just be in the same room if possible. Since his absence, that particular ache had become a constant, well-known companion, and it still hadn’t left him entirely. But now he was at least able to do something about it.

He did not even have to wait that long. As he began carrying the chopped wood into the shed, John walked out of the back door, now wearing his jacket and gloves. “Here, let me help you,” he offered and began collecting.

“Thanks.” They shared another smile. Sherlock took a moment to brush the tiny debris from his shirt and catch his breath. John was right there; he wasn’t thousands of miles away, in another country… he was just here, in Sherlock’s home, at _Christmas_ , collecting wood. Looking at John, he suddenly felt as if his chest had expanded to twice its size all. It made him dizzy and he leaned against the door frame for a moment. John stopped, blinked and cocked his head, still holding on to his armful of wood.

“Are you okay? I think you should sit down for a moment.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, but sat down on an old camping chair anyway.

John began stacking his load neatly by the wall and chuckled. “That’s what you get for doing physical labour on an empty stomach.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but he had nothing. The only thing on his mind (besides a slight dizziness) was the fact that John was right there, somehow blissfully unaware of his momentous discovery only last night. He let out a huffed laugh. “Always my doctor,” he said gently ( _too gently_ ).

John froze. Then he slowly, deliberately stacked the last wood pieces. He brushed his hands off on his trousers and turned around, an indescribable expression on his face. He slowly came closer, almost as if he was being pulled. Sherlock felt a lump rise in his throat, his heart beat faster under his ribs. Suddenly he felt dizzy for entirely different reasons.

 _Oh, God_ , this was not good. His own need to be close to John had made him careless again, and now he’d let himself be in a situation again in which John would say something or _do something…_

John was stepping closer, regarding him with a fond, yet almost pained expression. Sherlock took a moment to recognize it as _longing_. He dreaded to think what his own face was betraying to John. His heart hammered in his chest and heat rose to his cheeks.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, sounding broken, helpless. It made his chest ache. Sherlock felt the need in his chest pull at him. All he had to do was _give in_ and he’d be in John’s arms in a heartbeat, closing the distance between them was only a matter of letting go…

“Not to worry,” he said quickly, jumping to his feet. John flinched a little at the abruptness. “Thanks for your help. I’ll—uh. I’ll find something to eat, so there’s no need to worry. I’ll be—fine.”

John pressed his lips together so only a thin line remained. His eyes were sad. The moment passed.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and practically ran back to the house.

\----------------

Despite his hasty retreat, Sherlock actually kept his word. He steered his steps towards the kitchen, where his father was stacking some of the wood in the corner by the oven. It gave the room a warm, comfortable smell. Sherlock went to the fridge and grabbed the plate with Mummy’s pork pies from the day before. He quickly finished one of them off and grabbed another, when he heard his father chuckle.

“Has your _transport_ caught up with you again?” He leaned against the counter and regarded Sherlock with an amused, indulgent smile.

Sherlock shrugged. “Got a bit dizzy. My doctor tells me I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast.” Even as he said it almost automatically, Sherlock felt a smile steal onto his face when he thought _my doctor, indeed_. God, he had to get a grip on himself. He’d only just managed to get out of the shed before John… no, before _they_ did something from which there was no return. Christ, the things _that_ thought brought to mind…

He quickly ate the remains of the last pork pie, not looking at his father, who was still scrutinising him. “Your doctor is a clever man.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Cleverer than he looks,” he allowed himself a small smirk.

“He’s a _good_ man,” Father added appreciatively and not at all suggestively. (That was more Mummy’s terrain.) Yet that didn’t make it any better. Sherlock still blushed, perhaps especially because of his father’s sincerity.

“That he is too,” Sherlock replied truthfully. “Too good for me certainly, but he doesn’t want to admit it to himself”, he added, then grabbed a few biscuits from a plate (the ones that John had helped make), gave his father a nod and wandered on before he could reply. John would probably come in soon, so Sherlock kept on his coat and went out the front door. To his surprise, he found Mycroft there, standing on the path, looking out over the meadow. He had his back to him, but the small stream of smoke rising over his shoulder could still be seen from the door.

Sherlock walked over to him and wordlessly took up post by his side. They stared over the wintery landscape for a little while. Mycroft wasn’t wearing a coat, but then again his three-piece suits were probably all especially insulated or some such nonsense. Sherlock held out his hand, which contained some of the biscuits he’d grabbed.

Mycroft glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, surprised, and took one. He ate it with relish (Sherlock smirked and offered another) and then pulled out his packet of cigarettes. He shrugged one out of the package and held it out for Sherlock, who took it in exchange for the last biscuit. A lighter materialised before Sherlock’s face and he lit the cigarette with it, shielding it with his hand against the wind before handing it back.

For a few minutes, they smoked in silence. Sherlock knew it wouldn’t last long, though. There was clearly something on Mycroft’s mind.

Finally, Mycroft sighed. He pulled out a thrice-folded newspaper article from his inside pocket and handed it to Sherlock. It looked like he’d taken it from a London tabloid. Sherlock frowned in apprehension as he unfolded it and the picture came into view.

In a small section at the side of the page was a picture of him and John, dancing at the MI5 fundraiser. Sherlock blinked and felt a hint of annoyance. He wasn’t upset about the picture being there; it was just… it was a very good photograph. It wasn’t too grainy, and you could clearly see their facial expressions. John was leading him through the waltz, their bodies so close together that he had tilted his head back to smile at Sherlock. And my goodness, _that smile_. You had to be blind not to see the pure adoration there. Sherlock felt something warm and fuzzy unfold in his belly again when he examined his own face. Yes, definitely one hundred percent adoring John back. Completely gone on that small sun he held in his arms. Yes, Sherlock was a bit annoyed that someone had managed to observe them in such a private, intimate moment; yet at the same time he was glad it existed.

The headline read, ‘Detecting Love?!’ and Sherlock huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “Lovely photograph,” he said, making no move to hand the article back. Mycroft let him.

“Indeed.” He was smiling, but not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock took a drag of his cigarette, looking at the picture. He remembered the exact moment it was taken. John had cracked a joke to dissolve some of the tension between them. “I thought there were no photographs allowed beyond the official releases?” he asked casually.

Mycroft shrugged. “Plenty of people with camera phones,” he drawled. “Not really something we can prevent on these functions.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, knowing the conversation was still not over. Finally, he blew out a long plume of smoke and asked, “well?”

Mycroft discarded some ash on the driveway. His voice was in an amused, yet carefully distant tone. “Well.” He huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “I was just wondering when you’re finally putting John out of his misery. The poor man can hardly do anything anymore without thinking of you. I saw him earlier and, well… he practically _advertises_ it.” Mycroft sounded a bit put out by such tiresome frankness. ( _Obviously_.)

But Sherlock’s mind immediately jumped back. Stumbled. “Put him out of his…?” Did Mycroft just… _encourage_ him? Sherlock wrinkled his nose and stared at Mycroft in utter confusion.

"What's the matter?" Mycroft smiled politely, face innocent.

“Put him out of his…?” He gaped for a moment, his jaw working a few times up and down before he managed his next words. " _Are you ill??_ ” Sherlock looked him up and down. “What happened to _'caring isn't an advantage'_?"

"I--" Mycroft began, but Sherlock didn’t let him finish.

Exasperation bubbled through him as he mocked his brother’s voice. " _Love is a chemical defect_ – we always agreed on this! _It was the one thing we agreed on, Mycroft_!"

"I know.” Mycroft took a last drag from his cigarette. He then produced a small ashtray from his pocket, clicked it open, stubbed out the end and then closed the ashtray around it. “I still believe it is. However, it would be foolish to ignore the facts."

"Facts?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"Caring _isn't_ an advantage, Sherlock. Neither is your pig-headedness. That doesn't mean they're just going to go away if you ignore them long enough. If it were that easy you would be a much more pleasant man to be around."

"You mean...?" Sherlock ignored the jab in favour of letting out a small, panicked laugh.

Mycroft shrugged. "It may be a chemical defect, brother – but it happens to the best of us."

"No. _No, Mycroft_. It's ridiculous. If this is what sentiment feels like, I don't want it. I don't want anything to do with it! It doesn't happen to you, does it? How did you turn it off?"

"I didn't," Mycroft admitted with a sigh, but Sherlock wasn’t able to focus on the strange admission at the moment. All he could think about was that he’d never felt as much as if somebody literally had pulled a rug out from under his feet than he did now.

"But this is terrible! I can't concentrate, this is melting my brain cells! How do normal people cope?!"

"It's all about compatibility, Sherlock. Believe me, it is one of the greatest surprises of my life that there could be someone out there who not only tolerates you but who'd be willing to be in a relationship with you." Mycroft suddenly sounded as if he gave regular relationship advice in some kind of society rag. He could only shake his head in disbelief.

“I don’t want to be in a bloody relationship! I want my brain back, my solitude!”

“Well, I suppose you could simply throw Dr Watson out on the street and look for a new flatmate…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft gave a theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes. He turned towards him, though, his voice more relaxed, lower, a bit irritated. “Dear Lord, Sherlock, do I have to spell everything out for you? Go to him. Talk to him. _Shag him_ , or whatever you need to do, and eventually you’ll get your brain back.”

Sherlock looked more affronted than he ever had in his life. Once again his mouth opened and closed a few times without sound. _One of the goldfish after all_ , he vaguely registered. Finally, he realised what Mycroft had said.

“What do you mean, eventually?!”

Mycroft had surely been about to make another snide remark, but he was cut off when the front door was opened rather abruptly behind them. Mycroft winced before Sherlock did, and they spun around.

Mummy stood in the doorway, looking as imperious as only she could. “Are you two smoking!”

Sherlock carelessly held the offending item behind his back. “No,” Mycroft called, raising his hands innocently, just as Sherlock called, “ _it was Mycroft_!”

Their mother levelled her accusing glare at him, before she closed the door with vigour, shutting them out again. Sherlock smirked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, and he knew they both felt like boys again for a moment.

This effectively ended their conversation. He stubbed out the cigarette and they slowly went back inside. He felt strangely bereft – Mycroft was always the one person he could count on to understand his antisocial behaviour. He’d always assumed that his brother was equally uninterested in the subject of relationships as he was. He felt as if Mycroft had very solidly one-upped him in an area where Sherlock might not want to follow. Had it all been an act? Was Mycroft actually… _seeing someone_? No, he’d have known if he was.

He regarded him from the side. _What’s gotten into you?_

Mycroft gave him an almost fond smile. “Just… think about it.” He huffed a laugh. “Seeing as it’s Christmas?”

Sherlock simply shook his head again and decided that Mycroft had definitely gone barmy with age.


	13. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say except... thank you all for the wait and the lovely reviews so far. Here's a little something soft and some much-needed feels for you, you're welcome <3

That evening, the mood was tense in the Holmes household. John couldn’t help feeling a little gloomy after Sherlock’s hasty retreat earlier in the shed. Once again, he’d come so close, only to miss his chance again. The problem was that he wasn’t one hundred percent sure what he should do. He dithered between too close and too far away; he didn’t know which was more advisable – should he simply jump Sherlock, profess his undying love to him, snog him senseless and risk putting him off? Or should he give him more time, more space… and risk letting him drift away? Either way, it all felt wrong. Everything between them was off-kilter, unnatural, out of balance. This thing, this decision, stood between them like a massive wall, barring them from returning to some semblance of normalcy until it was resolved.

So John sat at the dinner table, picking at the really very lovely dinner Margaret had prepared and tried desperately not to look too glum. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one pulling a long face that night. Sherlock’s parents seemed a bit tired, and Richard kept glancing at his youngest son with a bit of worry in his eyes. Mycroft behaved prim and proper as always, making polite conversation about nothing with Mary, who seemed slightly affronted at having to keep up the small talk.

After dinner, she was the one to try and lighten the mood. They’d retired to the sitting room, the slight tension hanging in the air like a fog. Sherlock was working on his laptop, Mycroft was pretending to read but kept watching Sherlock with a worried look. Margaret and Richard had started another game of Scrabble, but their hearts clearly weren’t in it. John simply sat there, staring at the small log fire in the hearth, pondering his own inadequacies.

He remembered the conversation he’d had that afternoon with Mycroft. He’d moved his things to Sherlock’s room, awkwardly making a space for himself, placing some toiletries on the dresser next to Sherlock’s things. _If only…_

* * *

 

_Mycroft came in without knocking. John glanced over his shoulder and then proceeded to sort his clean clothes from his used ones. He hesitated a moment and then placed his paperback on the bedside table, feeling incredibly silly._

_“Settling in?” Mycroft smiled at him a little deviously._

_John sighed. He was so done with the Holmes brothers’ shenanigans. “So it would seem.”_

_Mycroft smiled and raised his eyebrows. Then he appeared to reach some kind of decision and closed the door behind them._

_“Mummy wants me to tell you that tea’s ready. But I’d like to talk to you first.”_

_John snorted and frowned at Mycroft in surprise. “Normally you kidnap me and inform me that you need to talk to me, whether I want to or not.”_

_“I am a busy man,” Mycroft smiled genially. “I find it speeds things up, don’t you?”_

_John huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. “What are you even doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working on catching a lunatic?”_

_Mycroft began to speak and John interrupted, “and don’t give me that_ spending Christmas with the family _crap.”_

_Mycroft shook his head and still wore that amused smile he had. John never quite knew what to make of it. “Let’s just say things have been put in motion and I’m… here to keep an eye on you all.”_

_John laughed. “Right.” After a moment’s thought, he sat down on the bed. “Okay then. Shoot.”_

_Mycroft remained standing. “I think there are a few things you should know, at this point. About Sherlock’s… exile.”_

_John took a deep breath and placed both hands on his thighs. Then he let the breath out slowly through his nose. “I know about Serbia. I saw the scars.”_

_“Ah.” Mycroft acknowledged this merely with a nod._

_“Thank you… for getting him out. I know he doesn’t appreciate it. But I do.”_

_“I know,” Mycroft said very softly. John looked up sharply._

_Mycroft sighed. Then he sat down in the comfortable chair in the corner, and it seemed to John as if he was shedding some of his strained posture, letting actual sentiments show. After a moment, he spoke. His voice was quieter than usual and contained none of the sarcastic wit that laced his every word. “John… I told you when we first met that I worry about him.”_

_John was quiet and simply let him continue. His heart had picked up a little, as it usually did when he was about to learn something approaching_ the truth _from either brother. “Professionally speaking, I should have given him more time in Serbia. To be honest, it is worth a few scars to apprehend some of the people Sherlock was in contact with there, and thankfully we got most of them.” His jaw set, making his face look harder. His eyes were cold. “They got what they deserved, make no mistake.”_

_John found that oddly comforting. There were many perks to having Mycroft Holmes on the team, and he trusted him to handle this sort of thing with an efficient kind of ruthlessness. “Good.”_

_Mycroft’s lip quirked up briefly. “When I retrieved Sherlock, I told him…” he paused. John had never seen the man so reluctant. He cocked his head to the side. “Spit it out – you’re not usually someone to agonize over a decision,” he pointed out._

_Mycroft, to his surprise, laughed. “My brother doesn’t give you enough credit, you know? You’ve become quite good at reading people.”_

_John huffed a laugh and shook his head. “A compliment, from you? It really must be Christmas.”_

_Mycroft lowered his head and sighed. “I had you under observation. After the Fall.”_

_John immediately sobered and steadied himself a bit. They’d never discussed this. “I gathered.”_

_“For what it’s worth… I am sorry for the pain we caused you, John.”_

_John swallowed but said nothing. He clenched his hands. There were probably photographs and recordings. He wondered if Sherlock had seen them._

_“We found out about Ms Morstan’s… former situation fairly quickly, but as long as she was simply a nurse we decided to do nothing. When she, and in consequence,_ you _, were being followed, we began paying closer attention.”_

 _John frowned and felt a cold shiver run down his spine._ Big Brother, indeed _. “Jesus, how… how long was that going on?”_

_“Only for one or two weeks. It seems her former colleague was waiting for an opportunity.”_

_“So… Sherlock’s return?”_

_Mycroft smiled ruefully. “I’d already made up my mind that we had to accelerate his resurrection, as it were.” He shifted in his seat. “Of course my people could have easily taken care of your little situation – but this was a good a reason as any. I told him you were in danger and he agreed to come back immediately.”_

_John felt his heat leap a little at the admission, and Mycroft surely saw it. He quirked another smile that was startlingly sincere. “He is… rather attached to you, John.”_

_Mycroft got up and walked to the window, staring out into the wintery garden for a moment. “I watched him through various security means we had set up wherever he went. We never got complete coverage, but it was enough to form an opinion of his general wellbeing.” He turned and fixed his penetrating eyes on John. “He wasn’t doing well. He’s a detective; he loves the puzzles, the drama, the challenge. He did not relish the blood or the depravities he had to witness. He never would have admitted it to me, of course.”_

_“Christ,” John whispered, and ran a hand through his hair._

_“I was worried that leaving him there longer than necessary would reawaken certain…_ habits _. I was grateful for the extra incentive to get him out.” Mycroft paced the room once, then sat down again. He kept his eyes on John. “I’m going to be perfectly frank, John. While Sherlock enjoyed his stint as London’s new private sleuth, and while the adrenaline of the cases kept him away from his other addictions, I have no doubt that it all would eventually bore him again. He had a very close call, once, and…” Mycroft’s immaculate voice broke for a moment. “I never want to experience that again.”_

_John swallowed. “I understand,” he whispered._

_Mycroft pulled himself together. “He’s a different man with you,” he stated firmly._

_John stared at him. “Are you sure? He doesn’t seem all that different to me,” he said, but he immediately realised that wasn’t true. Right from the start, he’d seen the grateful looks Lestrade was giving him whenever he joined them at a crime scene. He’d noticed the little things Sherlock did when he least expected it, such as late night ‘Bond and takeout’ marathons (that he hated) just to cheer John up after another girlfriend broke up with him. John had always thought that Sherlock knew very well that he was one of the reasons women got fed up with John and felt it was fair recompense. But secretly he knew they both simply enjoyed each other’s company and were glad for the excuse._

_Mycroft’s smile grew knowing. “Nice try,” he said. “But even the fact that Sherlock agreed so quickly to come back shows how much of an impact you’ve had on his life so far. Even I expected him to give me more trouble about it.”_

_John sighed and scooted backwards on the bed a little, leaning on his hands. “And look at all the good it does us now.”_

_Mycroft was quiet a moment and then shocked John to his core. “Don’t give up, John.”_

_John blinked and snapped his eyes back to Mycroft. He gaped. “Never in a million years did I expect to have a conversation with you quite like this, you know.”_

_Mycroft rolled his eyes. ”I mean it, John. Sherlock… he needs you. And he knows it. He understands what a role you have come to play in his life and he’s afraid to concede it. I saved him in Serbia and he resents me for it; he hates it when he’s anything but self-sufficient, has done ever since he was a child.”_

_John listened with rapt attention, images of a small, proud Sherlock appearing in his mind._

_“And part of him probably hates what… well, what he’s feeling when it comes to you.”_

_“But—“_

_“Have patience. Just… don’t leave him, John. I realise this is putting a lot of pressure on you, and I have no right to ask—“_

_“Of course I’m not leaving him!” John found he’d gotten up abruptly, brow drawn together tightly._

_Mycroft regarded him a moment. “Good. I thought as much. But perhaps you need to remind him of that,” he added softly. He got up. “I told him he needed to save you, but I think he needs you to save him more.”_

_John blinked and felt a few tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Damn the man. He simply gave Mycroft a curt nod. Mycroft squared his jaw and straightened before he went for the door. “I’ll tell Mummy you’ll come down in a bit.”_

* * *

John had been contemplating Mycroft’s little speech. He’d tried, hadn’t he? After he’d gone downstairs for tea, he’d spotted Sherlock doing some wood chopping in the garden. _And wasn’t that a sight for sore eyes_. But as soon as he’d approached Sherlock in the shed, the infuriating man had bolted. At this point, frantic longing and frustration were warring in John’s chest for dominance. _He probably hates what he’s feeling… He’s afraid_ … John remembered Mycroft’s words. Of course he was right, it was bloody obvious. However, John felt utterly helpless in the face of such strong opposition. Sherlock needed him? Well, it was pretty damn difficult to help someone who truly didn’t want to be helped. John stared into the fire some more, disliking himself more and more.

Finally, after fidgeting a while, Mary suddenly jumped up, startling John out of his reverie. She rolled his eyes at him. “Drink?” she asked loudly, before striding with purpose to the small cabinet on the other side of the room. She paused by Margaret’s chair and smiled tentatively. “Care for a drink, Mrs Holmes?”

Margaret seemed a bit surprised at that. “Mary, I’ve told you to call me Margaret,” was her first, automatic response, her hand resting briefly on Mary’s arm. Mary smiled and waited, but it was Richard who finally got what she was trying to do. He got up. “She’ll have port, and so will I,” he winked. “Thank you.”

Mycroft finally looked up and regarded them all a moment. “I’ll help,” he offered and went to busy himself with filling glasses as well. Without asking for it, John suddenly found himself with a rather nice whiskey in his hands. The Holmes parents had abandoned their game and joined him and Mary by the fire, settled on the larger sofa. Mycroft had pulled up an armchair and swirled his own whiskey in his glass.

Mary was curled up with a glass of wine on the other armchair, a blanket draped over her legs. She looked like a comfortable cat, John thought with a smile; a cat who was very pleased at having at least gotten them all this far. It was interesting to see how she behaved, John thought. Because now that he knew about her, he understood the little incongruous things he noticed much more. She held herself differently than the Mary he knew from the clinic; her movements were less studied and poised and more sharp and controlled. On the other hand, her laughter now was less girly than it had been; John had liked her laugh, but he realised in hindsight that it was a lot more genuine now.

She was an accomplished actress, he had to hand that to her. But he truly liked her better when she was like this, more herself. Perhaps, if she’d simply been who she really was, things might have worked out between them? But then, he knew her now, and felt nothing but a kind of fledgling friendship towards her. That was nice enough, but it was nothing compared to the torturing heat he now endured every time Sherlock glanced his way. _Nothing fledgling about that_ , he sighed inwardly.

Sherlock was still stubbornly sitting at the other end of the room, staring at his laptop, an untouched glass of sherry by his side. John glanced over a few times but decided to leave him alone for now. He obviously was working on the case, and whatever it was, he wasn’t exactly discussing it with John.

However, despite Sherlock’s reclusiveness, the silence in the room finally became more comfortable. Somehow, sitting together like this in front of the fire made John feel like he was part of the family more than anything else so far. Even Mycroft seemed comfortable, and John saw him raise his glass to Mary with an acknowledging nod. Mary smiled back and winked. Mycroft rolled his eyes and John was reminded strongly of Sherlock when he did. Small conversations ebbed and flowed, every-day moments and forgotten acquaintances and it was all still pretty meaningless but it didn’t feel as useless as before anymore. John sank back further into the cushions, propped up his legs on the smaller sofa, which he had to himself, and relaxed. When Margaret topped up their drinks, he didn’t protest.

In John’s experience, evenings with friends and plenty of booze have a way of turning in a certain direction; surprisingly, the Holmes family Christmas was no exception. For some reason, Mary told them about one of their colleagues’ outrageous hen night and they ended up discussing drinking games. As it turned out, John should have realised then that this was the tipping point for the evening. Ten minutes later saw them all with new beverages and a post-it note stuck to each forehead.

John looked around and suddenly had the weirdest feeling of detachment. Mary – _a_ _bloody trained assassin_ – was actually _giggling_ , completely failing to steer her questions anywhere near the ambitious ‘ _Ernest Hemmingway_ ’ that was stuck to her forehead in Margaret’s curly handwriting. Mycroft – _basically the British Government_ – had a pink tint hovering over each cheekbone, looking remarkably amused at this turn of events. He had deduced John’s very unimaginative ‘ _James Bond_ ’ on his own forehead almost immediately and was now leaning back with the face of a smug winner.

John had absolutely no clue who he was supposed to be; so far he knew he was still alive and probably a woman, even though the question whether or not he was _pretty_ had not been answered conclusively and had Mary and Margaret dissolve into laughter. John, clueless as he was, couldn’t help but laugh along at this point.

“Room for one more?” The deep voice startled him out of his fit and John looked up in surprise to see Sherlock hovering next to the smaller sofa he occupied. He noticed that everybody had furtively given the empty seat next to him a wide berth, and he suddenly felt incredibly silly at this blatant attempt at… well, _matchmaking_. He gestured and moved his legs down. Sherlock gracefully folded himself into the cushions, cradling his half-empty glass.

“Oh, Sherlock, you need one, too,” Margaret grinned and pointed at the post-it pad. “John, come on.” She got up and fetched the sherry bottle from the cabinet and gave her son a top-up.

John held the post-its and pondered Sherlock’s face a moment. He was definitely tipsy enough to simply look at him, appreciating the fine lines of his cheekbones and lips without feeling too self-conscious; but he also noticed that Sherlock still shifted a little uncomfortably so he stopped. At least he’d taken his bloody suit jacket off.

“Maybe someone else should come up with something,” John offered. “I don’t have the best track record.” He gestured a thumb to Mycroft who rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“Don’t be silly, John,” Richard said. “Just write someone famous that pops into your head.”

John sighed. Then he noticed Sherlock looking back at him curiously, probably trying to deduce what John would write before he knew it himself. He grinned and wrote quickly, then sticking the post-it with the words ‘ _Sherlock Holmes_ ’ firmly to Sherlock’s forehead.

Mummy looked up and gaped for a moment, then she laughed loudly, and was quickly joined by her husband. Mary snorted into her wine glass. Sherlock looked annoyed and glared at John. “Oh what nonsense did you come up with now?”

“What, you haven’t deduced it yet?” John grinned at him, feeling rather pleased with himself.

“It’s probably one of those mentally challenged pop stars only you would know about.”

John snorted. “Yeah. Probably,” he shrugged with mock-nonchalance, which made Mary choke on her wine. Sherlock glared some more, but John saw the corner of his mouth twitch and he relaxed a bit more into the cushions and joined the game.

Surprisingly, he seemed to really enjoy himself. He began laughing along more and more, the tension easing from his shoulders like it had from John’s. He was exasperated at not being able to guess his persona, which made John laugh, which in turn seemed to please Sherlock in no small measure. John thought that he had to remember to thank Mary later – she’d certainly turned the evening around. Margaret had put on a CD with some classical music that felt vaguely Christmassy without being obnoxious. The atmosphere was more relaxed, Mycroft was beginning to doze off over a book and Sherlock and John were together, safe, among friends. Regardless of all the other things unsolved between them, John was happier than he thought he’d ever be again.

A little while later, Margaret guessed her note correctly – _Albert Einstein_ – and gave her husband a fond look. “That was too easy and you know it,” she chided. Richard merely kissed her in response and John’s heart melted a little for the two of them. He leaned a little closer towards Sherlock, yearning pulling at his heart again. He looked at the man, his hair mussed and his cheeks pink from drinking the entirety of the sherry by himself. He noticed that Sherlock had undone his top button and John now found it hard to tear his eyes away.

Suddenly, he became aware of a further complication. In his relaxed state, he’d thrown his arm over the backrest of the sofa, just to be comfortable. However, now he’d drifted closer to Sherlock, he found himself in the strange position of almost having an arm around his shoulders. He wasn’t touching him, but now he wondered what would happen if he did, like this. His heart picked up a little speed. God, he could have sat here for another hour not noticing this, but now that he had, his entire focus was on his arm.

“You know, I’ll never guess this one, darling,” Richard said to his wife, shaking his head and laughing fondly. “Myc’s probably given me some obscure Russian author or Norwegian Nobel prize winner!”

Mycroft laughed softly, still reclining in his armchair, his eyes close and his hands folded on his chest. “Hardly,” he murmured. “I lowered my expectations years ago.”

“Mycroft!” Mummy got up and swatted him on the arm, but it was clear that this was simply friendly family teasing. She took her and her husband’s glass and said, “well, I’m turning in anyways. You youngsters have fun!”

John saw Sherlock mouth the word ‘ _youngsters’_ with a completely adorable bewildered and affronted look on his face and he chuckled. Richard picked up on it and smiled at them fondly, before plucking the post-it note from his forehead. “’ _Prince Charles’_ …?” he exclaimed. “Oh, I could have guessed that one!”

“Yes, dear,” Margaret said good-naturedly as he got up to join her. “Oh, pick up my book will you?” She took another empty bottle under her arm to drop off in the kitchen. “Good night, everyone!”

Richard grabbed her book from the scrabble table and nodded. “Don’t stay up too— _oh_ , what am I saying, it’s Christmas! Stay up as long as you can. Have fun,” he winked and gave a little wave with the book, before he followed his wife, swaying a bit on his feet.

John smiled back, watching them go. He thought back to the conversation he and Sherlock had had in the cab not too long ago. Never in a million years would he have been able to picture Sherlock’s parents; and if he’d tried to guess, this was very far from what he’d expected. A very welcome surprise, indeed. On the other hand, it shouldn’t really surprise him that much; Sherlock was kind and even gentle in his own way. This was even more noticeable now, since he’d been back. He definitely was nothing like the unfeeling sociopath he’d portrayed when they’d first met. He now saw where that part of Sherlock may have come from.

As soon as Sherlock’s parents had gone, John’s original problem was solved; Sherlock jumped up and threw himself on the larger sofa much as he was used to doing at home. He stretched out his long legs and settled comfortably on his back, sighing contentedly. John sighed quietly, missing his solid form next to him – but he could see how comfortable he was. Mary chuckled and exchanged a look of fond amusement with John. Both Holmes brothers looked more at ease than either of them had ever seen them and John grinned back silently, enjoying the view. He felt the buzz of the alcohol softening everything around him, lulling him in a pleasant cloud of acceptance. His worry over his relationship to Sherlock, the apprehension over the case, the snipers, the bloody secretary with a vendetta – it all seemed less of an issue. All he could see was Sherlock Holmes, his fingers steepled under his chin, asking Mary in a very serious voice, “have I, in a misguided attempt at reinventing myself, shaved off half my hair, dyed the rest of it a ridiculous colour and then proceeded to make an utter fool of myself in public?”

John snorted. Mary gaped. “Not that I know of?” she offered, at which John burst out laughing again.

Sherlock sent him a triumphant look. “Not one of your pop stars then,” he said smugly, and John found it hard to breathe now from laughing. Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile. “Your turn,” he said to Mary, and she giggled. The game was back on.

* * *

The next time John managed to glance at a clock it was already way past 2 AM. Mycroft had passed out in his chair for good now, and Mary and John’s yawns were severely inhibiting her ability to play, chat and drink. The game had somewhat dwindled into the background, since none of them managed to guess what was stuck to their foreheads and running out of questions. Things morphed into a strange three-way nonsense conversation in which they talked and giggled about nothing and Sherlock interspersed their chats with weird observations or questions that had nothing to do with anything but he insisted were important for future reference.

At one point, John neatly toppled off the sofa, either from laughing or simply from trying to lean over to Sherlock for… something, he wasn’t sure. He decided that the floor was safer at that point and leaned against the other sofa, resting either his arm or his head directly by Sherlock’s side. Mary gave him a knowing grin, her cheeks flushed from the wine and her eyes softening. John reckoned he’d looked exactly like that at Sherlock’s parents earlier and he kind of understood.

Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, in fact, he actually leaned in a little. John felt his voice vibrate through his torso and into John every time he spoke. It made him feel warm and comfortable. Everything felt simply… lovely. He couldn’t recall why he’d been so gloomy all day. All that _stuff_ from earlier faded into grey, a strange white noise he hardly thought of now. All he knew was that suddenly, Sherlock shifted and let his hand rest on John’s head, clumsily rubbing his fingers across his scalp. The sensation made a wonderful warmth flow through him and he leaned back, sighing contentedly. He felt his eyes close and everything spun a little in the darkness.

“Well, um,” Mary suddenly broke the ongoing silence and startled John back into consciousness. She glanced at them a little sheepishly. “I think I’ve had enough. Good night boys,” she said gently and wrapped the blanket a little closer to take it with her. She nodded at John and then left. Her footsteps slowly faded as she went up the stairs and along the upstairs corridor. The only sound now was Mycroft’s quiet breathing and the crackling of the remaining embers in the fireplace.

Sherlock’s hand had stilled and he felt as if he was suspended in time behind John. He had stopped breathing for a moment, which made John turn around slowly. He locked eyes with Sherlock, both of them sleepy and way too drunk to really think about _anything_ properly. John’s breath caught and he swallowed heavily when he saw Sherlock’s face shift ever so slightly. It looked as if he was struggling with a difficult problem and realised that being drunk wasn’t helping. His eyes flickered to the doorway and John immediately understood what the problem was.

“You’re still wondering… whether I’ll go after her,” he murmured softly. It wasn’t a question.

Sherlock waved an arm and banged it sloppily into the backrest of the sofa. He rumbled something John didn’t catch and abruptly sat up. He swung his long legs off the sofa, overshot his balance and nearly fell over the other way. John caught his hand and helped him to sit up, kneeling by his legs. It was such an intimate position, and everything was still pleasantly blurry and nice and… _God_. He was completely _gone_ on this man.

He thought of some of the things Mycroft had told him. “Sherlock,” he whispered, gripping the hand a bit tighter. “I’m with _you_ , not Mary, remember?” He flushed when he realised what he’d said. “I mean…” He stalled. His words came out all garbled. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to say at all, but his lips seemed to no longer obey him. He frowned, tried to sort out his thoughts, but then…

….he was suddenly distracted by Sherlock leaning forward, running a hand up his neck and resting it in his hair. His forehead rested against John’s and he breathed. Then he murmured, “I know.”

John felt the embers in his veins leap into blazing flames at the touch. He heard Sherlock whisper his name, the exhalation making his skin shiver. He blinked, trying to calm his racing heart. “Sherlock, come on.” With a creak in his knees, he heaved himself to his feet, holding on to what remained of his self-control. “We’re not sleeping here; Mycroft will never let us hear the end of it.”

Sherlock scoffed, or it sounded something like it anyway. He let John pull him to his feet, overbalancing again so that he landed straight in his arms. John smiled, his heart full, and peeled off the sticky notes from his and Sherlock’s foreheads, discarding them without further thought. Then he began maneuvering Sherlock into the corridor, keeping him firmly in his arms.

When they reached the stairs, he took the first step, but Sherlock didn’t immediately follow. John turned around to tug him onward, and was startled to find Sherlock a lot closer than he’d thought. John’s arms shot forward and held on to his shoulders immediately to top him from overbalancing again. His ridiculously tall friend was standing right next to the first step, now suddenly on eye level with him. It certainly gave things a new perspective, John thought as warmth bloomed in his cheeks.

Sherlock seemed to find this incredibly funny. He _giggled_. “Look,” he snorted and brought his hand up to make a leveling gesture above their heads. “We’re the same height now,” he snickered.

John huffed a laugh. “Even drunk you still joke about my height, really?” _God, is there a more endearing sight?_

“Simple… observation,” Sherlock noted, his speech slowing. His eyes, though almost drooping closed, had a glint in them; he usually reserved that look for particularly interesting experiments. “We’re the same… height,” he repeated, his gaze zoning in on John’s lips.

John’s parted them slightly, even as he held his breath.

“ _Convenient_ ,” Sherlock whispered, before he leaned in to kiss him.

Everything in John’s world tilted upside down at the sudden touch of soft lips pressed against his. Clumsily, tentatively… but _oh…_ so wonderful. He felt a small sigh escape his nose when he finally breathed again, relaxing against the gentle press of skin against skin.

Sherlock’s hands rested weightlessly against his hips. There was nothing else John could feel or understand but these few touches. Everything else rapidly evaporated from his reality. He simply let himself go, half sure this was a dream. _Sherlock_. _He was finally kissing Sherlock_. He thought… but then… _oh God, he’d dreamed of this_. But nothing compared to the real thing. He felt all conscious reason rapidly flee from his body.

He gently, slowly, tilted his head a little. Sherlock seemed to instinctively understand and tilted his head the other way, their lips slotting together even more snugly. John felt Sherlock’s mouth give under his, lips sliding against each other, _gently_ , almost chaste, but it set John’s every nerve tingling. Sherlock suddenly let out a little whine in his throat and John’s movement stuttered to a halt as he sound shocked through him like electricity. _Oh God, did he… he clearly wanted_ … John’s thoughts tumbled and turned into smoke when he tried to grasp them.

Afraid to break the spell if he moved too quickly, he slowly plucked one of Sherlock’s hands from his hip and interlaced their fingers. He withdrew his lips, missing the contact immediately, and opened his eyes. Sherlock’s opened a moment later, frowning in confusion. John smiled and nudged their noses together. “ _Bed_ ,” he whispered roughly, and he felt both their heartbeats accelerate as Sherlock’s eyes dilated immediately. _Christ_ , John had no idea he could have that kind of effect on _anybody_. It was more intoxicating than anything he’d imbibed that night.

Thankfully, Sherlock followed his tugging this time and took the stairs, staring at John in a daze as they made their way to Sherlock’s room.

John’s heart was thumping a staccato in his chest, growing more and more frantic as they neared the bedroom. Everything was silent, but John was almost deafened by the noise of the blood rushing in his ears. Sherlock stumbled a little, and so did John, but he never let go of Sherlock’s hand; the warm skin and gentle touch anchoring him in reality.

He pushed open the bedroom door. He stepped in; Sherlock followed. The door clicked shut behind them. John breathed out. He looked around, still swaying on his feet. The bed had been made, the single bedding replaced by two duvets and pillows. And John couldn’t turn around, he _couldn’t_ —

Hands slowly ghosted down his spine. The touch vanished as sudden as it started, however, and Sherlock stumbled past him to his dresser. When John realised what he was doing, he didn’t look away quickly enough. Sherlock pulled off his shirt and trousers and socks and for a moment John simply let himself look and breathe out to steady himself, confronted with this much gorgeous man.

Of course, Sherlock never had any qualms about nudity, and so he didn't seem to see any sense in clothes now. He climbed into bed, only in his pants. John swallowed. Sherlock looked up at him with hazy expectancy, which finally snapped him back to non-slow-motion reality. He stumbled to his own travelling bag to get a similar change of clothes, electing to wear a t-shirt and some pyjama bottoms, because anything less would probably make his heart combust. When he turned around again, Sherlock had rolled under the duvet. He could see the covers heaving with his breath.

John quickly slipped into bed, pulling up his covers as well. Lying down, he felt the alcohol immediately catch up with him. Everything tilted dangerously for a moment, but then his hand brushed Sherlock’s and he grabbed hold of it firmly. Sherlock breathed in and slowly laced their fingers together once more.  “John,” he whispered, a wistful smile on his face.

John smiled back. He turned to his side as well and deemed it safe to shuffle a little closer. Sherlock held open his duvet invitingly, and John shifted under it, finding himself quickly enveloped by a comforting warmth. He brought his face closer to Sherlock’s almost without thinking about it. Their noses bumped and John felt something tighten in his stomach; his eyes suddenly tickled with moisture. Here, right now, this was suddenly and inexplicably _possible_. He gently kissed Sherlock, just a soft press of lips, a promise. He felt Sherlock’s entire body relax and sink into the mattress. He tentatively brought his other hand up to lay softly on Sherlock’s waist, his thumb smoothing circles over the soft skin, feeling the goose bumps the second they appeared. God, he wished he could suspend time so that he could take as long as he liked to explore every inch of that inviting, warm skin... but tiredness pulled at him like heavy weights. He kissed Sherlock again, a little longer this time, and simply enjoyed the feel of their lips sleepily learning each other’s shape.

Sherlock’s quiet sighs sounded exactly like the feelings overfilling John’s chest with happiness and gentle contentment. He slowly felt himself drift off, Sherlock’s steady breath on his skin and the flutter of lips against his and the soft noises lulling him to sleep. He let his hands slip over Sherlock’s waist to his back and nestled a little closer, burying his face against Sherlock’s neck, and that was the last thing he remembered.


	14. Dancing Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after...

**Chapter 14: Dancing Alone**

 

The first thing that Sherlock registered was a mild, dull headache. The second thing was that he wasn’t alone. A warm body was pressed close against his side, an arm thrown over his chest and a leg hooked over Sherlock’s. John was still sleeping peacefully, effectively trapping Sherlock in a very warm cocoon against the bed.

It wasn’t unpleasant, Sherlock was surprised to admit. A smile stole onto his lips and he slowly brought up his arm around John and placed his hand gently on his shoulder. He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath.

So John had finally gotten to him last night; and with a bit of liquid courage on either side, his last remaining doubts had summarily been whisked away by an overwhelming longing and no small amount of desire.

Not too long ago, Sherlock would have been chagrined to confess this; but he felt a pleasant excitement buzzing in his head (along with the hangover) and none of that annoyed distaste he used to harbour for any kind of feeling.

He went over the data again, trying to sort out his thoughts in the waking-up haze. He had defined his choices as either pushing John away or going all in, and that choice had now been made, whether he liked it or not. Theoretically, of course, he could pretend nothing happened – but that would likely break John’s heart (completely out of the question; he’d done it once and he’d promised himself he’d never to it again). He mentally brushed the option aside. Even if they’d been drunk, it wasn’t as if he regretted it. Hell, as far as he remembered, he even instigated the whole thing. Who would have thought?

John murmured in his sleep and Sherlock let his hand wander upwards, to trail along John’s neck, to caress the hair at the back of his neck. He felt a pleasant tingle in his fingertips and noticed that some goose bumps had risen on John’s skin. Fascinating. Perhaps this whole relationship stuff wouldn’t be so boring if he could _experiment_ with certain…

Ah, but there it was; there was a change in John’s breathing and a certain tension crept into his body, interrupting Sherlock’s trail of thoughts. The hand on Sherlock’s chest tightened and danced across the skin briefly before it let go abruptly, signalling John’s realisation where he was. The feeling of John's hands on his skin suddenly sent a whole load of new sensory input down Sherlock's nerves and he felt his skin warm in response. He shuddered a little. Fascinating. He wondered if John felt the same. Sherlock slowly charted every nuance of his reactions as he woke, wondering whether any previous partner ( _read: dull girlfriends_ ) had paid such close attention. ( _Probably not._ )

John took a deep breath, his posture relaxing a little. Sherlock could practically feel the wheels turning in John’s head. He noted that Sherlock hadn’t dashed away and had, in fact, an arm placed rather possessively around him. He noted that Sherlock was mostly naked, which he would try to ignore ( _and fail_ ). He would decide to confront the matter head on. Always the soldier.

John tilted his head upwards ever so slightly and looked up from under sleep-heavy lashes. Sherlock shifted his head sideways to see him better. John’s skin was reddened where he’d rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. He was a bit pale ( _hungover, too_ ) and he swallowed drily ( _dehydrated_ ) before quickly licking his lips ( _arousal, even though of a sleepy kind_ ). Sherlock gave him a small smile.

John smiled back, but there was a tint of surprise in his eyes that Sherlock found extremely gratifying. He’d been afraid that his new _foray_ into sentiment made him predictably ordinary. _Longing glances_ , how tedious; _romantic lie-ins_ , what a waste of time. _Predictable. Ordinary._ But if John Watson’s gaze right now was to be believed, Sherlock was clearly neither.

The look made his breath catch in his throat; his turn to be surprised. He had worried so much about the possible repercussions of being with John, but he hadn’t really been able to conjure up how incredible the intimacy of that would feel. Somehow, he had thought it all depended so much on what _he_ thought and felt and did; he hadn’t accounted for the deep well of … _let’s call it attachment_ … that was unveiled before his eyes. John, whilst being quite transparent about his feelings at all times, had somehow hidden most of it away until now. Sherlock felt his lips go slack in astonishment. This was something he had truly not expected.

He blinked and even as he thought it, John must have seen it in his eyes. His gaze dropped to Sherlock’s lips for a second. He softly placed his hand flat against Sherlock’s chest, spreading out his hand. Warmth spread through his chest and surrounded his rapidly accelerating heart. And then, just because he could, and because it felt like there was really no alternative, Sherlock leaned down and gently pressed his lips to John’s, feeling the body in his arm melt against him.

After a small blissful eternity during which Sherlock must have forgotten to breathe, John slowly broke away. Sherlock let his head roll back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe normally. He still did not release the arm around John, who only shuffled a little closer to him. With the shift of the body, Sherlock could just feel the erection pressed against his thigh, making his stomach do a flip before deciding that today’s state was definitely pretending to be in a zero gravity environment.

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, and then glanced at John again. The man in his arms greeted him with an endearing smile. “Good morning.” His voice was hushed, rough from sleep.

Sherlock let out a disbelieving chuckle and quickly rolled his eyes, making a point of looking back at the ceiling. “Well… this is new.”

“Yes,” John conceded. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then he finally asked, very quietly, “but all right?”

Sherlock couldn’t speak. What was he supposed to say to that? Of course he wasn’t bloody all right; his whole world had just been profoundly shaken by a few choice observations about his own body and (apparently) soul. It would take time to figure this out. But perhaps John needed a bit of reassurance at this point. He looked down again and smiled; for a moment, he dropped any kind of façade he might usually employ. He let John _see_. And then he nodded.

John let out a small gasp. His voice caught. “Good.” He closed his eyes and let his hand wander down Sherlock’s side to wrap around his body, to hug him tightly. “Good,” he whispered again, and pressed his face against Sherlock’s neck, to breathe in deeply.

Sherlock shuddered again, letting the affection and adoration and … _everything else_ simply wash over him. He tilted his own face closer and rested his nose in John’s hair, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Yes, it was, actually, surprisingly, _good_.

They rested there a little longer, not speaking, simply soaking in everything the new morning currently had to offer. Sherlock found his thoughts drifting, not settling on any one thing; the only thing tethering him to the passage of time was his hand resting on John’s back, feeling the slow breathing under his palm. Memories of the hospital after the initial assault came back to him, when he’d finally been able to touch John, to reassure himself that he was alive and well.

After a while, though, biology invariably interfered. John awkwardly excused himself to the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to bemoan the lack of body warmth all of a sudden. He debated with himself whether he should just get up and escape; or if he should wait. The anticipation tingled in his fingers and toes; he was itching to jump up and _run_ or throw himself into an experiment or to burn something or to solve a really tricky murder.

Before he had made up his mind, however, John returned. He brought the smell of the shower with him, and he was rubbing a towel through his hair. Closing the door behind him he threw the towel over the chair, his hair now sticking up at all angles. He didn’t catch Sherlock’s eye, but threw himself on the bed again, his pyjamas sticking to his damp skin, brushing alongside Sherlock’s arm at his side. He sighed, but it sounded just a bit ill and not actually romantically motivated.

Finally, he threw an arm over his face, covering his eyes. “You know, this would be a lot more pleasant without the massive hangover,” he mumbled.

Sherlock chuckled, rolling onto his side to look at John. “I agree.”

John removed his arm and caught Sherlock’s eye. And there it was again, that spark that seemed to ignite the veins and tendons throughout his body. And this time, John didn’t hesitate. "Christ, look at you," he murmured almost reverently. He rolled over, leaned in, and kissed Sherlock fiercely. There was a strength and intent behind it that made Sherlock’s knees weak. John slowly moved his lips against him, and when Sherlock kissed him back, he felt John shudder and suck in a breath through his nose.

John gently sucked Sherlock’s lower lip between his own, only to release it again with a soft scrape of his teeth. Sherlock heard a moan in the quiet... and suddenly realised it was him making that sound. He pulled back, his breath stuttering to a halt. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, his eyes blinking rapidly. John was almost a blur before him. A very concerned looking blur.

“Oh G— _I’m sorry_. I shouldn’t— I—that was a bit much all at once, I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He pressed a hand against his mouth as if he could make his offending lips disappear.

Sherlock forced himself to take a breath and just… _stop_. This was… new. He’d read about it plenty, both in books and on people’s (suspects’) faces. Lust, desire and intimacy wasn’t exactly his area but for crying out loud, he knew a thing or two, right? Theoretically? It was all very simple chemistry, really. He flung himself onto his back again as he felt a traitorous blush creep all over his neck and chest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he huffed.

John, to his mortification, couldn’t stop a small laugh that escaped from behind his hand. “Sorry,” he quickly mumbled. “Sorry.” He tried to school his features into seriousness, but failed miserably, of course. Unnervingly, Sherlock found the sight quite endearing.

“I’m going to have a shower, too,” Sherlock announced and quickly got up, before this decidedly odd situation escalated further.

“It’s just—“ John brought out, lowering his hand, the mirth in his eyes blending into fondness. _I’m happy,_ his eyes said. _I am, in fact, bursting with happy._

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly and smiled briefly, which, he was grateful to note, stopped John short again. But before things got even sappier, he pulled a few clothes from his dresser, held them protectively before his groin (lest he scandalise any other family members) and made his way to the bathroom.

* * *

John had evidently dressed and gone downstairs when Sherlock returned, so he made his way down to the kitchen as well. He found Father sitting in his usual chair, reading the newspaper. John was leaning against the counter, cradling a mug of tea. A half-eaten croissant lay on a plate before him. He was staring out of the window into the frosty morning, a small smile playing around his lips. And as much as Sherlock didn’t want things to be different, he realised, as his heart did several backflips, that they invariably were very different now.

It had something to do with bodies, Sherlock thought. The unblemished, sober morning air was clearing up some of the fog in his head and he looked at John. Really looked. And he realised that having felt that body so close to him, so intimately entangled, changed his perception of it forever. But it was also more than that.

He moved through the kitchen as fluidly as he could and furnished himself with a cup of strong black coffee from the can his father had prepared. John looked around and his face lit up. “Hey,” he said quietly, when Sherlock joined him by the counter. Sherlock hummed, locking eyes with John a moment before turning to look out of the window as well.

John nibbled on his croissant and Sherlock had to force himself not to look at John’s lips. No, it was definitely more than just bodies. But that didn’t mean he’d like to take some time to explore the whole _body_ aspect of this. It was a little bit frightening as well. The last time he’d felt so single-mindedly interested in something that wasn’t a case it had come in a syringe.

Suddenly, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted his mother, watching him from the doorway with a very soft expression on her face. Father looked up as well, shared a glance with Mummy and smiled. He got up, grabbed his mug and they left the kitchen together, very obviously trying not to be in the way. Bless his parents, but Sherlock wished they hadn’t done that. Suddenly, he was faced with John by himself again, and he wasn’t sure how much more emotional upheaval he could take on just one coffee.

But John simply sighed, ate his croissant and didn’t say anything, and Sherlock was profoundly grateful. For a few minutes, they simply shared the same space, looked out into the garden and had breakfast. Finally, John grabbed his empty plate and turned in the direction of the dishwasher. He took a step towards Sherlock, to move past him, but then paused; he leaned a bit closer and said, “one step at a time, yes?”

Sherlock swallowed as he felt the breath on his cheek. “Yes.”

John smiled, placed a quick kiss on his cheek and then moved on to clear up. And Sherlock ended up simply watching him and processing, thinking, working it out.

John was done with the kitchen quickly and grabbed the sports part of the newspaper that Father had discarded earlier. Sherlock thought for a moment before he spoke, carefully. “I’m going back to do some more… work.”

John looked up. “Right,” he said, but then he pursed his lips. Sherlock waited patiently. “Um… what are you actually working on? Can I help?”

Sherlock smiled. He probably should have told him before. “I’ve narrowed down Vivian Norbury’s possible properties to a few small towns in Cornwall. Every cross-check I do with something we know about her eliminates another location.”

John frowned. “Is Mycroft’s team not doing the same thing?”

Sherlock scoffed. “ _Please_. I bet they’re still working out whether she even lives in this country. I’m way ahead of them.”

“Of course.” John grinned.

“Only a matter of time, now.”

“Let me know if you need me to do anything.”

“Not… at the moment. But thank you. I will.” Sherlock hated how insecure his voice suddenly sounded. But then again, John’s genuine satisfaction at that statement amply made up for it.

Sherlock re-filled his coffee and without further preamble, strode out into the hallway.

* * *

In the afternoon, Mummy completely banned anyone from entering the kitchen as she began preparing the Christmas dinner. At some point, John asked, somewhat fearfully, how many other family members they were expecting. Father only laughed and said that his wife always cooked for twenty at Christmas, even if it was just the two of them.

Sherlock was on his laptop, idly listening in on their conversations as he worked. He didn’t anticipate the break-through when it came. Father was telling John and Mary about the time when they bought their house; it was one of those generally safe subjects to discuss. They’d already told all the embarrassing childhood stories, Father had mildly quizzed John about the army and his (and Mary’s) surgery and politely inquired about them working on cases again. And now houses. Sherlock had vaguely noted that both John and Mary looked incredibly bored, but were too polite to say so. Sherlock had never had such qualms.

But then Father said, “we had this nice offer down in Beauworth, but it was miles away from anybody. No shops, no post office, no neighbours, really—“

“Sounds heavenly,” Mary mused a little distractedly with a yawn.

“We were buying with an eye on retirement, you see. If one of us couldn’t drive a car any longer, then where would we be?”

The conversation droned on, but Sherlock stared at his spreadsheet. Three houses in three small towns, all identical in basic real estate terms. All available for purchase at the time when Vivian Norbury would have bought herself her retirement cottage. Sherlock nearly slapped his forehead. He’d been so stupid! He had figured out as much as he could from her records and actions about what kind of a woman she was; matching the kinds of houses available to her personality was child’s play. But he’d forgotten about her age. He slowly blinked at two of the addresses on his sheet. Then he deleted them both. One house remained. This was it.

Sherlock glanced up and caught John’s eye. John smiled at him hopefully, to relieve him from this tediousness. Well, then.

Sherlock began looking up train times.

* * *

John went through much of the day on some kind of cloud. His head felt a little better after some food and the second aspirin. He also suspected that kissing Sherlock had released enough endorphins to carry him through another bullet wound with a smile if necessary. God, he really couldn’t have guessed how this would turn out, and if he had, it certainly would have been more complicated than that. John was torn between walking on air and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sherlock seemed perfectly fine with what happened – unsure, inexperienced perhaps, certainly a little overwhelmed with all this new _data_. But he didn’t seem like he regretted it. Rather the opposite, thankfully. Just thinking about the few kisses John could coherently remember made him blush. He couldn’t wait to repeat that entire night with zero alcohol in him and all his faculties focussed on Sherlock.

For now, though, he’d give him some space.

Sherlock was busy on his laptop. Since this afternoon, he’d developed a certain manic energy, not even looking up when John briefly rested his hand on his shoulder.

Feeling like he had some thoughts to work out himself, John decided to go for a walk, otherwise he was afraid he’d simply run back into the living room and throw himself at the madman he loved, _space be damned_. The walk did help. For the first time in days he felt truly clear-headed and so profoundly relieved that he almost whistled. They were safe and a pretty amazing Christmas dinner would probably be waiting for them when he came back. As Christmases went, he’d had worse.

However, as John neared the Holmes’ house again, a new sense of unease was waiting for him in the shape of a large, black Sedan. He walked through the garden gate and saw Sherlock conferring with Mycroft on the front step. Something about the image niggled at his brain. He knew something about it was off, but couldn’t put his finger on it.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a nod that actually approached respect and turned to stride down the path toward John. “Mycroft?”

“John. It seems I must be off again,” he intoned with a hint of sadness. It was impossible to tell if it was genuine or not.

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” John raised his eyebrows. “And your Mum cooked for twenty. Surely Queen and country can have a break tonight?”

“I’m afraid not.” Mycroft smiled politely. “Do enjoy your evening,” he said glibly, and didn’t that sound suggestive as hell when he accompanied it with _such_ a look.

John gritted his teeth and raised his chin; he flashed Mycroft his cockiest glance. “I think I will, yeah.”

Mycroft sighed. He rolled his eyes and said his goodbyes and John had to chuckle, walking on to the house. The Sedan departed and John stood before Sherlock.

“I do so enjoy watching you annoy him,” Sherlock smirked.

“I do so enjoy doing it,” John grinned back, butterflies in his stomach.

Sherlock went back inside. “Meddlesome snake,” he muttered.

“Interfering git,” John replied, and they both laughed.

* * *

It was late. Dinner had come and gone and the five remaining occupants of the Holmes household were draped over various sofas and chairs in the living room, tired and exhausted from a sumptuous meal. Sherlock had to fight the urge to jump up and pace. But he didn’t want to clue the others in that he had solved it. That he was ready to go. So he sat and waited. He wanted to tell John – wanted to hear him say ‘ _amazing’_ and smile. But that was something private, something for only the two of them. So instead, Sherlock kept to himself, deep in thought, planning ahead. And waited.

John let him. In fact, John hadn’t so much as approached him all day; a feat of great personal willpower if the longing looks he sent Sherlock were any indication. It was somewhat distracting, but Sherlock was glad that he kept himself back. It would be even more distracting to fully occupy himself with the recent changes in their relationship. He had to stay on track. It was probably for the best if he kept his distance a little until all of this was over. He ignored the uncomfortable feeling that thought suddenly produced in his belly. _Later. It could wait._

* * *

John smiled wistfully across the room. Sherlock was sitting in his _thinking_ pose; he looked a bit like a statue when he was like this. John was reminded of many days at Baker Street when Sherlock wouldn’t talk to him for hours – until he suddenly emerged from his mind palace and expected John to seamlessly pick up a conversation he’d had with ‘ _Mind Palace John’_. At first, John had laughed outright; over time he’d realised that Sherlock really wasn’t joking about this. Then it had felt oddly special and endearing, to know that he held such a place within the vast space of Sherlock’s mind.

Now, however, he couldn’t wait for everyone to finally leave them alone. He itched to continue where they left off last night (and in the morning), only this time, they’d be sober. Now that he had scratched the surface of what they could have, he guessed he would never have enough. John clenched his hand and let his eyes wander from Sherlock to the open page of a book in his lap and back to Sherlock. He wasn’t sure how long he kept it up, but he noticed that Mary was giving them both sly glances and smirks.

He caught her eye once and wondered if she’d known all along. If she’d seen it that evening in the art gallery. Mary grinned and then went back to tapping on her phone and John had his answer.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, everyone went to bed. Margaret, the last to leave, gathered her book and her glasses and turned to John. “Be a dear and turn the music off when you go to bed,” she pointed at the shelf. “Good Night, John.”

“Good night, Margaret.”

Soft Jazz was wafting through the living room, accompanied by the crackling embers of the fire. John forced himself to wait a minute longer, listening to everyone moving about upstairs. Then, he finally stood up and walked over to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up. Gave John a quizzical look. John smiled and tentatively held out his hand. “I promised I’d dance with you again,” he said very quietly. “Is now a good time?”

Sherlock smiled, which made something somersault within John’s chest. He swelled with pride when Sherlock accepted his hand and got up. “If you like,” he said amiably.

They stepped away from the chair into a bit of free space. John gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s back and clasped their hands together.

For a while, they swayed softly to the music, and John felt his heart thump heavily. He really wanted to lean up to kiss Sherlock, but something about Sherlock’s hesitancy made him hold himself back. There was something off about Sherlock’s behaviour – he seemed wary and careful, like John was a wounded animal not to be startled. At the same time, John felt exactly the same about Sherlock. He didn’t want to ask too much of him too soon; he didn’t want to damage this fragile thing they had. A bit of a conundrum, that.

Sherlock moved his head a bit closer, resting it against John’s hair.

John hummed contentedly and he felt another pang in his chest. Perhaps he should say _something_. His voice was a soft murmur. “So what is this, then? This thing… that’s happening?” _Smooth, John. Very eloquent._

He felt Sherlock breathe in and sigh slowly. “I’m not sure,” he said very quietly.

They were quiet for a little while as they swayed to the music. Then Sherlock took a breath and stated the obvious. "We weren't like this before. _You_ didn't used to be like this." Obvious or not, John thought, perhaps it was good that one of them finally said something about that.

John thought for a moment, but he knew he’d had his answer already. "I guess death changes people," he repeated his own words back to Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. They locked eyes and John knew that Sherlock understood.

After a moment of more gentle swaying to the music and searching each other’s eyes, Sherlock finally spoke again. "If you will allow me to point out... You always were very adamant that you were not... _well_. Interested in men."

John let out a nervous laugh. A reflex, really. "I'm not! I'm..." _It’s just you_.

Sherlock sighed as John floundered. Of course he’d have no patience for unnecessary awkwardness. His hand slid down to the small of Johns back and with a short but firm pull he snapped their hips together. John gasped a quiet " _oh God_ ". He felt the smooth planes of Sherlock’s chest against his, the pressure on his back and front and it nearly made his knees weak. "Okay," he conceded weakly. "Perhaps I swing a bit more both ways than I originally thought."

Sherlock chuckled and he felt the vibrations through his entire body. “About time you figured that out.”

John huffed a laugh and made use of their closeness by laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Guess you figured that out on day one, then?”

“Oh! Obviously,” Sherlock drawled, but John could hear the smile in his voice.

"So what are we going to do about it?"

A silence stretched between them, clashing with the soft notes of jazz. John felt the heaviness of his words, the demand, like a heavy weight on his heart. Why did this feel so complicated? Couldn’t they just…?

He leaned back and looked at Sherlock. His eyes looked conflicted, his lips tightly pressed together. Then he looked away. “Why do we need to do anything about it?” Sherlock deflected.

John bristled a little. “Well, what do you call this, then?”

“Dancing. We’re just dancing, John,” Sherlock scoffed, and still he would not meet his eyes. John felt the minute tremors in the hand that clasped his.

“Sherlock,” he said, softly, gently. “Don’t do this. I know you too well.”

Sherlock frowned as he finally locked eyes with John again. “Yes, you do. So you know that… _this_ … this _physicality_ isn’t exactly my top priority,” he spat out. Then he blinked rapidly and looked away again. He looked like he was about ready to bolt.

“ _Physicality_! Sherlock, I—“ John didn’t know what to say. Was it just that? He took a deep breath. He wanted to say _, it’s more than that. We both know I love you. I would do anything. It’s not just some physical release we’re after. Is it?_ Sherlock was so observant, he surely must read John well enough—

“We’re not slaves to our bodies, John.” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper.

“God, Sherlock,” John muttered. “Of course we aren’t. But don’t you feel—I mean, I just—“ he floundered. “I can’t help wanting to be close, you know? That’s just how it works for me. Look… I’m not you. I’m not as observant. But I don’t think you regret what happened. I don’t think what I saw last night was a lie.” John let his hand wander lower on Sherlock’s back, drawing him closer. He felt like he was losing him all over again. “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want, you know that. But—can’t we at least be honest about how things are?”

Sherlock suddenly twisted out of his grasp and took a step away. He ran his hand down his neck, the nervous energy that had filled him all day overflowing. “It’s got nothing to do with honesty, don’t be so melodramatic,” he burst out. “It’s _biology_ , pure and simple. So what if you’re attracted to me? Why does everybody make such a fuss about this? We could just—“

But John stepped in and cut him off. “Oh, no. No, absolutely not. I am stopping you right there before you’re going to say something you will regret.”

Sherlock scoffed a laugh, but it was without humour. “You just feel the need to discuss it because you obviously haven’t confronted your bisexuality. So what if you like men and women, big deal. Perhaps you should think about it some more before we—“

John stepped forward. “Stop it. You are not turning this into some kind of grand debate. This is not _everybody_ , this is not _fuss_ , Sherlock. And it sure as hell isn’t just _bloody biology_.” He stepped closer again; too close. “This is not about other men or women, this is about _you_. I know how I feel about you, goddammit, and nothing you can say will make me believe otherwise!” John heard his own voice pick up and he tried to dial it down a bit. His anger was bubbling to the surface now. “You lied to me once like this, you made me believe you were cold and uncaring and that you loved nothing and nobody in the world. I know better now, Sherlock. I won’t fall for it again. So you can stuff your stupid excuses—“ John realised he was gripping Sherlock’s arms and had walked him towards the bookshelf. He took a deep breath and let go. He turned and walked a few paces, then rested his hands on the back of an armchair. He sighed.

“Why now, John?” Sherlock’s voice was low. “There’s the case and… everything is already difficult. Why do you have to force this… _now_? I’m back and you’re back and everything can go back to the way it was. Isn’t that good enough?” He sounded almost pleading. _Scared_ , John realised.

He was silent. Then he spoke, his voice controlled, quietly. “No it’s not. It’s no longer good enough, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed. The jazz song suddenly came to a stop and the CD evidently ended. There was a shaky breath in the silence. “But why now,” Sherlock whispered, sounding miserable and worried.

“BECAUSE YOU DIED!” The words burst from John’s lips like a gunshot. He could feel the recoil reverberate through his teeth and tongue and throat all the way down to the pit of his stomach. The aftershock settled in his bones, his fingers gripping the chair.  He slowly turned around and stared at Sherlock, feeling tears threatening to rise.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like… to _really regret_ something, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was silent.

“Because… _you died_ and I never told you how I felt—“ John choked on his words. “And then—you were gone. And I regretted it so much, Sherlock. You were—“

He pulled a scratching breath through his nose. Tried to calm himself. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You saved my life, Sherlock. You _were_ my life. And I _never told you_ …”

John took a step towards Sherlock, his eyes moist now. He could see the shock and the pain on Sherlock’s face and knew that he was at least getting through to him.

“And I knew—no, I _know_. I had to try, even if you didn’t—“ he heaved another breath, feeling like he might hyperventilate. “You _had to know_. Because this is a dangerous business we’re in, especially right now, and—if you _died_ , _again_ , for real... I could not live with myself if I hadn’t at least tried.” His voice turned pleading now. Begging Sherlock to understand. “The regret nearly killed me, Sherlock. I can’t go through that again. So I promised myself I would try.”

He took the last few steps towards him, but Sherlock drew back. He swallowed, his eyes pained and confused as he recoiled from John. _And that’s only to be expected_ , thought a tiny part in John’s brain, because Sherlock must be abhorred by the way John was transformed into a snivelling mess by sentiment and feelings. The rejection ached and twisted his guts, and John knew he hadn’t expressed himself well at all. He hadn’t said what he truly wanted to say. He didn’t know _how_.

 _Well, that was that, then_. John felt the first tears escape his eyes. Suddenly, he remembered his words from what seemed like ages ago. They had danced together and John had promised Sherlock, _if you ever want to do that again, I won’t cry._ Well, so much for _dancing together_.

He turned on the spot and almost ran out of the room. He needed air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-------------  
> To anyone still reading this, thank you for sticking with it. I appreciate it. I promise we're getting near the end now. ;-)  
> I hope there aren't too many logical mistakes. I wish I had a beta ;-)


	15. Into the Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas! Time to head to Cornwall to pick up the plot and get into trouble ;-)

 

Sherlock stood very still in the middle of the sitting room. Somehow, they had gone from dancing (actually very pleasant) to fighting, if that’s what it was, to… _this_. Sherlock blinked, staring after John. He hadn’t meant to brush him off like that at all. Had he? Did that mean that their… _thing_ was now over? Was there some unspoken relationship rule Sherlock hadn’t followed?

Whatever state they were in now, Sherlock slowly began to realise that it was doing unpleasant things to his chest and stomach. It was, actually, an entirely new kind of unpleasantness, something he hadn’t really encountered before.

He turned around and took a few steps to look out of the window. He could vaguely see John’s shadow on the driveway, hesitating. He was clearly contemplating going for a walk; he often did that to clear his head. Evidently, prudence won out (it was late and dark, after all) and he resigned himself, shoulders slumped, to stomping back up the gravel path and out of sight.

Sherlock heaved a sigh and sank down in one of the armchairs again. With steepled fingers, he stared into the dying embers of the fire. After a few minutes in thought, he shook his head. His mind was conjuring up the same images again and again: John nestled closely against his chest. John looking up at him with that so very fond look of his that softened his eyes. John, exasperated, evidently wrecked by such weighty sentiment that he was shouting, talking of regret.

Regret seemed to be the key. Sherlock knew he didn’t regret what happened between them (John seemed to think so), but somehow that knowledge didn’t make things easier. He realised he couldn’t very well say he regretted nothing and then expect John to stop… whatever they were doing. Maybe they should just get drunk again, that seemed to have helped with the dilemma a bit, he thought wryly. It had certainly shut up his brain for a while.

His eyes wandered to the clock on the mantle. They had about an hour to go before their train to Cornwall. Sherlock wished he’d brought that up sooner, too. After all, it was one of the reasons why he hadn’t wanted to get closer to John tonight, knowing they had to stop to catch the train. Somehow he hadn’t quite managed to sneak that into the conversation before everything went completely south.

Sherlock stood and walked out. He silently ascended the stairs and went to his ( _their_ ) room to get ready. As he quickly got changed into a fresh shirt, he contemplated the bed. Waking up with John had been nice. Knowing he was there with John was infinitely more desirable than being holed up in some draughty Eastern European cottage in the middle of bloody nowhere. But that was a given. Hardly a compliment. Sherlock had spent his time away wishing he was home – and home, he’d thought, naturally included John. But he hadn’t realised that John _was_ home. He hadn’t imagined waking up in the same bed or kissing in front of his parents’ fireplace; that would have been a fancy much too far-fetched.

And yet, apparently _John_ had thought about it. He had realised there might have been more than just companionship between them and had to live with the regret. Sherlock couldn’t fault him his frustration – who ever got a second chance like this? He ran his hands through his hair and sighed, stopped in the middle of buttoning his shirt. Even though he understood, Sherlock couldn’t keep up. He didn’t have all of that regret to convince him of what he wanted; and before he’d even figured it out in the first place, John had jumped three steps ahead again and confused him with his warmth and nearness and touch.

But this was getting him nowhere. Sherlock hastily finished getting dressed, trying to stem the flood of images and feelings threatening to occupy his mind. He needed clarity to see this through.

* * *

About twenty minutes later, Sherlock’s phone vibrated. A message told him that the car was waiting. He was already in the hallway and slung his coat around his shoulders, pocketing his phone and a few paraphernalia. He thought for a moment of the journey ahead, then dashed into the kitchen. A moment later, he emerged again, only to see John standing in the doorway to the sitting room.

He must have retired back inside when Sherlock was upstairs, but he looked a little frozen and uncomfortable after all. The fire had probably gone out. The thought of John just sitting there despite the cold sent another jolt of unpleasantness to Sherlock’s stomach and he felt an urge to step forward and warm John up in a tight embrace. Unfortunately, they were out of time.

“Oh—“ John said, taking in the coat. “Are you… leaving?” A flash of hurt crossed his eyes.

Sherlock gave him a tight-lipped smile and picked up John’s jacket. He held it out tentatively.

John frowned, but then pulled himself together remarkably. He cleared his throat, took on a more formal stance. He knew the game was on. _Oh, John_.

He took the jacket from Sherlock. “Where are we going then?”

“Cornwall,” Sherlock said. “A car’s waiting and I booked a train earlier today.”

“Cornwall.”

“Yes.”

“That’s, uh, where this Norbury is, then?”

“Most probably, yes.” Sherlock allowed another small smile. If they could re-bond over anything it must surely be this case.

“Right. Well—“ John finally pulled on his jacket. “You got everything, then?”

“Yes.”

John patted his pockets until he found the shape he was looking for. “Ah. Good.”

Sherlock nodded. He turned and led the way outside. There was a black car waiting in front of the low garden gate. The night was dark and overcast, only a lone street light casting an orange glow down the village road. Icy fog curled around the humming vehicle, the heat from its engines only adding to the swirling mist. Sherlock drew his coat closer. He stepped up to the back door, holding it open for John.

John looked up, sharing a look with him for a moment. And despite everything that had (or hadn’t) happened between them, this was something no one could take away. The thrill of finally picking up the scent, continuing the hunt. The atmosphere seemed oddly ominous and fitting to how they both felt. It eased the knot in his stomach a little, but John slid into the car without a word. Sherlock sighed as he followed. He still had an uphill battle before him if he wanted to fix this.

* * *

John didn’t ask a single question, simply taking it in stride that Sherlock had bribed one of Mycroft’s ‘actors’ to take them to the train station in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve.  The man drove without unnecessary small  talk as well, and so they spent the short trip in silence.

A few villages down, Sherlock and John were left almost alone on the only platform to catch the last train to Winchester before midnight. Nothing would be running on Christmas Day, so Sherlock had planned ahead. The journey on the train was short and silent; John stared out of the window most of the time, into the darkness. When they arrived, Sherlock led them to an almost deserted parking lot behind the train station. Everything was decked out in holly, red and green tinsel dangling from every available surface. He tried to ignore it.

A few drunk people were waiting for buses or catching taxis, carrying each other home. Normally, the whole scenario would prompt John to make some humorous observation or other. Sherlock enjoyed these kinds of comments far more than he would if they came from anyone else. Now, John was only silent and didn’t even question their route, their preparation, nothing. Sherlock wished he could explain how brilliantly the inane conversation that afternoon had sparked the final, the required, idea! But it seemed impossible to make a sound now that John had effectively gone mute as some kind of recompense for accompanying him.

A large SUV was waiting for them. Sherlock opened his phone and sent a quick text and a moment later, the car clicked open. He dug the keys out of the glove compartment and slipped into the driver’s seat. John followed, buckled in, and glanced around. Sherlock looked over and noted that a slightly puzzled look had taken over John’s features; but when he caught his eye, the blank mask slipped back into place. Sherlock sighed and turned the keys. This was going to be a long drive.

* * *

John awoke with a start. A passing light by the motorway blinded him briefly before everything was plunged into darkness once again. He lifted his head and ran a hand down his neck, massaging the stiffness away. God, it was Christmas bloody Eve and he wished he was in a bed. However, if his choice was being in bed alone or being out on the chase with Sherlock, there really was never a question where he was going to be, was there?

He looked over at Sherlock. The man was driving stoically, not saying a word since they left the Holmes house. He didn’t seem mad about John’s outburst. Well, he didn’t seem to exhibit any kind of emotion at the moment, period. Perhaps that was his natural defence mechanism after being confronted with that mess of sentiment earlier. _Christ_. Embarrassment flooded his chest and John took a deep breath, trying to put it out of his mind for now.

Sherlock suddenly moved, rummaging in his coat pocket. It was dark, they hadn’t encountered many cars at this time of night, and he was only illuminated by the instruments on the dashboard that cast an otherworldly orange-blue glow on his face and hands. Finally, there was a rustling sound and Sherlock, without looking, held out a small parcel of some kind. He held it out to John, who simply blinked and took it. Sherlock glanced over and caught his eye with a tentative smile. Somehow, that small contact sent a tendril of warmth down John’s spine and helped loosen his tensed shoulders.

John looked at the lump in his hands, carefully wrapped in napkins from dinner. He unfolded the top and was greeted by a smell of sugar and vanilla. He huffed out a soft laugh.

“You always get hungry during stakeouts,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled deeply, a bit rough from the long silence.

John smiled, feeling his face relax. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He carefully re-wrapped the cookies he had baked and put them into his jacket pocket. “I’ll hold on to them for later.”

“Good.” Sherlock sent him another brief look, a small smile ghosting on his face as well.

John licked his lips. “I’m sorry for shouting at you, earlier.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly, waiting a moment before he replied. “There’s really no need to apologize, John,” he said softly.

John swallowed. “All the same, I wish I could take it back.”

“Do you?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes on the road. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

John stared at him, blinking. “Why is that?” he asked slowly, not sure he wanted to know, really.

Sherlock sighed. “I think it’s something I needed to hear.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. “Oh.”

“I, um…” Sherlock struggled and cut himself off. The following silence was underscored by quiet sighs from a frowning Sherlock. He seemed frustrated.

“It’s okay,” John began, trying to help, but Sherlock brushed him off with a clipped, “I’m sorry, too. This is not… easy. So. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

John swallowed. “Uh. Thank you. But, um… it’s fine. We’re good.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, still sounding almost angry at himself. He seemed glad to stop the conversation right there. If he was honest, so was John.

He still felt the impact of the words long after they were said. For the rest of the drive, he replayed the conversation and he finally decided that it hadn’t sounded like an ending. He allowed himself to hope, once again, that maybe this whole _thing_ that was happening was far from over. _Baby steps_ , he reminded himself. _Baby steps_.

* * *

A few hours later, the landscape around them had changed. They pulled off the motorway and into smaller roads and finally country lanes, following the GPS Sherlock had set up. Soon, there was only darkness around them, and the ride became so bumpy that John wasn’t sure they were even on a proper road any more.

Sherlock slowed and kept glancing at the small, illuminated map on the GPS. Finally, he nodded. “Hold on to your seat, John,” he said with a small smirk, and turned the SUV into a field.

Sherlock killed the lights and the car bounced over rocks and slid through mud as they advanced through the field. John gripped the handle over the door tightly with one hand, his seat with the other, staring into the darkness. He hoped Sherlock knew where they were going. “Oh God, why do I let you do this,” he said.

“You love it,” Sherlock smirked and steered them expertly onwards, into the dark, somewhere only he could see, apparently. His tone struck a note in John’s chest that made him forget about the bumpy trail, and he had to control himself not to accidentally say something terribly sentimental in return. _Focus on the case, Watson_.

Finally, the hellish ride was over. Sherlock stopped the car and immediately hopped out. John followed, stretching his legs after the long drive. His eyes adjusted to the darkness a little and he could make out a small copse of trees in front of him. The field lay behind them. Stars shone above, far brighter than they ever could in London, and a pale half-moon peeked through dark clouds.

John stepped around the car, which was producing small noises as it settled in the cold. It seemed unbearably loud in the stillness of the field. “Where the hell are we,” John whispered.

Sherlock pulled out two torches from his pocket and handed one to John. “Cornwall,” he simply said, his voice a low whisper, too. “Close to the coast, actually. Norbury’s cottage is just through there. Come on.” He gestured to the trees.

John eyed them with some trepidation, but there was nothing to it. He zipped up his jacket against the cold, put on his gloves and steadied the torch. He nodded once. Sherlock turned and they carefully made their way onwards.

The ground was even, yet John was glad for the torchlight. There were small dips in the earth, fallen logs and suspiciously frozen looking patches that would trip the unaware. He certainly wasn’t planning on leaving Sherlock to go through all of this alone whilst he nursed a twisted ankle, so he took care with his steps. It made for slow going.

Thankfully, the small wooded area was not deep. After a good fifteen minutes of meandering, they reached the edge of the trees, looking out over a much smoother field than the one they’d left. Somebody’s front lawn, to be precise.

The long stretch of neatly clipped grass contained small areas of bushes and flower beds, all neatly tied up and bare for the winter. It was probably quite nicely kept during the summer. Bordering the lawn was a gravel path that led to a small cottage. As far as John could make out in the bit of moonlight, it had a bench by the front door, a wind chime, even an honest-to-god garden gnome, happily brandishing a watering can. There was a bird house and a bird bath, and a Christmas ornament decorated the quaint front door.

“Jesus, this looks like out of a magazine,” John whispered.

“Home of a murderer, John,” Sherlock said. “They come in all shapes and sizes. This one was paid for in blood,” he muttered darkly, and John felt a shiver go down his spine.

They sneaked along the edge of the law, trying to keep in the cover of the trees as long as possible, and then passing on next to a small hedge. Everything around the cottage seemed quiet, as if nobody was home. There was no light anywhere.

“Wait! What are we even doing here?” John held Sherlock back before he could move on. “I mean, what if she’s _home_?”

Sherlock sighed. “ _Now_ you ask me this? We’re looking for evidence, John. And if she’s home, we’re perfectly situated to arrest her.” With that, he turned around and strode on towards the house. John could only follow – after all, they’d come this far.

Sherlock carefully avoided the gravel path as long as possible, then approached the front door quietly. John placed his feet as if they were walking through a minefield, acutely aware of the crunching noise the fine gravel would make under too heavy steps. Every sliding pebble suddenly sounded like thunder in the stillness of the night.

Sherlock tried the front door; it was unlocked. Before John could stop him, he simply shrugged and went in. John cursed rather colourfully in his head and quickly followed, gently pulling the door closed again behind him. “Sherlock,” he hissed, but the dark form in front of him simply moved down the small corridor without heeding him. Thankfully, the carpeted hallway muffled the sounds of their feet.

The house smelled warm and inviting, though with that undercurrent of cleanliness that only inhabited very new houses. John suspected that some of the touches of age and country wear on the outside were rather artistically placed to create the right image for the area. There were small illustrations of country life adorning the hallway walls, framed in whimsical small picture frames. There were pressed flowers and even the odd cross stitch with a Bible quote. John frowned. Either this was the wrong house or he had completely misrepresented the elusive Vivian Norbury in his imagination. _Oh God_ , the thought suddenly, _please let this not be some innocent bystander’s house_.

The cottage was bigger than it had looked at first glance. Towards the back, it was actually quite expansive – clearly the modern demands of a spacious home had overruled original cottage quaintness. They traipsed through a sitting room, Sherlock leading the way unerringly through the house. Finally, he pushed a door open gently and smiled. “Here we are.”

“How the devil did you know where the goddamn study would be?” John hurried inside, glancing around the small orderly room. Large French windows along the far wall looked out over the garden.

“Floor plans, John.” Sherlock swanned in with a decidedly smug air. “I did spend considerable time on those real estate websites, you know.”

John swore again under his breath, searching the room, his heartrate already picking up speed. This was it, their usual metier; breaking and entering, looking for clues, probably confronting some murderous old lady. All part and parcel, John knew. Just another day in the… _Oh_.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly.

Sherlock followed his gaze to the laptop that rested on the desk. Or rather, what was attached to it.

In two strides, Sherlock was by his side and took a sharp breath through his nose. Then, he pulled a small evidence bag from his jacket and, his hands still covered in his usual black gloves, gingerly pulled out the large USB stick from the laptop. The letters A.G.R.A. were scrawled in black marker on the back. Sherlock looked up, their eyes met and John’s words stopped in his throat. It had been a long time since he’d last seen Sherlock so worried and conflicted. It made absolutely no sense to John.

“What? It must be Ajay’s, surely?”

“It is,” another voice startled them from the darkness. Sherlock turned quickly to look at the shadowy corner behind the door.

A sliver of moonlight reflected of a blond curl, sticking out of a black beanie hat. “And I’d like to have it, please,” Mary said, stepping fully into the room.

She was dressed again like she’d been the night she got shot, in some kind of black combat outfit. She held a silenced gun, but thankfully, it was pointed at the floor at the moment. Her voice was quiet and silky. “John,” she nodded in greeting. “Sherlock.”

John blinked. A hundred questions immediately sprung to mind, but all he managed was a hushed “Mary, what the hell?”

“Quite,” Sherlock hummed.

“The stick, please,” she repeated, and slowly took a step towards them. At the moment, the desk separated them, but Mary seemed intent to slowly circle it. Sherlock moved towards his right, closer to John, subtly trying to keep the desk between them.

“Where’s its owner?”

“Dead. Garden shed,” she said cooly. “Along with his friend from our date night,” she added with a nod to John.

“Did you…?” John stuttered, not sure how he felt about the whole thing.

Sherlock’s eyes flittered to him, took in his expression; his eyes narrowed. “Of course she didn’t, but it was convenient either way,” he said, sounding distracted.

A small smirk grew on Mary’s face as she advanced another step. “Don’t worry, he didn’t tell. Though I know you just saw that for yourself. You are rather impressive, I’ll give you that.”

Sherlock huffed. “Oh really.”

“What?” John suddenly felt rather like a child, left out of a conversation that was happening partly in his parents’ heads. He was reminded suddenly of Moriarty of all people, and of Irene; the way they spoke about him as if he wasn’t even there. It made anger boil in his stomach and he clenched a fist.

“Tell you what, boys, why don’t we have this conversation back in London over tea. I think for now, you should give me that memory stick and we should get the hell out of here.”

“We’re not done yet,” Sherlock scowled.

“Yes, _we_ are,” Mary emphasised, stepping further around the table. John couldn’t see her gun anymore and it made all of his danger senses tingle. He slowly reached for his pocket, only to find it empty. His eyes flitted to Sherlock. Of course, the bloody git was holding John’s gun concealed behind his back. _When did he have time to pickpocket him?!_

“Mycroft said reconnaissance; nothing more, Sherlock,” Mary admonished.

“Please,” Sherlock mocked, “you don’t expect me to believe you’re working for Mycroft, are you?”

“He sent me after you.”

“Convenient. And once you secured the information on this,” he waved the USB around, “you were just going to go back and hand it to the British government? Please.”

Mary breathed audibly and pursed her lips. “No,” she admitted with gritted teeth. I was going to destroy it and _then_ go and work for the bloody government, all right?”

Sherlock scoffed. “You’re a freelancer, Mary, and you always will be.”

The smirk had now slipped off Mary’s face entirely. “Freelancing is what got me into this mess. I’ve had enough of it.”

“Oh, and what about being Mary Morstan? Nursing wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

John looked between them like some kind of tennis match. They were hissing at each other like angry cats. “Will you two keep it down,” he whispered, but neither of them paid any attention.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Mary snapped. “Now give me the damn stick and let’s go.” She let out some air from her nostrils, calming down. “And then you can talk to Mycroft and he’ll confirm I’m here on his orders.”

Sherlock huffed again. “His orders may have been to follow us here, but I doubt your little _side mission_ was part of the plan?”

John had had enough. “Sherlock,” he hissed, “who cares? Just give her the damn stick and let’s leave. There’s two dead bodies in the shed. We shouldn’t stand around here too long. We should call Mycroft, or the police or—”

Sherlock quickly glanced over, then trained his eyes back on Mary. “Oh, John,” he sighed. “You’re always too trusting, too loyal. Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s covering her tracks.”

When John didn’t respond and just stared at him Sherlock made an impatient sound. “Norbury had the stick, undoubtedly as a security to keep Ajay in check; but that means she also knows everything incriminating about our _dear_ _Rosamund_ there. Quite a few skeletons in her closet, I imagine.”

“Mycroft’s got it covered,” Mary added rather hastily, her jaw set.

“Sherlock—“ John began, but was once again cut out of the conversation.

“Oh has he? I doubt he’d see you as more than a liability at this point. A security risk. Who’s to say you weren’t working for Norbury this entire time? Use John to get to me, cash in the reward for the _famous detective_ ,” he scoffed.

Mary was fuming now. And Sherlock was convinced his train of thought was correct. However, just this once, John wasn’t so sure he was right. He sounded off his game.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “I think she’s telling the truth.”

Sherlock whirled around, an incredulous look on his face. “John! She manipulated you! ‘ _Letting you go_ ’, indeed. She’s making sure she’s safe, and then all she’s got to do is deliver me back into Moran’s waiting hands. And everything will be back the way it should have been. Me out of the way, you, grieving and _available_ , and her, safe and sound and _rich_.” He spat out the last word, his eyes boring desperately into John’s. “Please, John, I know you’re terribly gullible, but please not this time.”

It was the pleading that did it. John swallowed as a heavy pain settled around his heart. Suddenly, he understood. Sherlock was completely wrong, he was sure of it. But he didn’t see it, because he was jealous and traumatized by all he had experienced at the hand of Moran’s people. He was afraid. And frightened people generally made _dumb_ choices.

Sherlock slowly raised his gun.

“Sherlock,” Mary warned, and raised hers as well. Slowly but surely, the two of them were facing each other down, hands outstretched. Sherlock looked close to panicking, whereas Mary seemed rather collected. Her eyes flittered to John for a moment, and he hoped she could see what was going on and would help him defuse the situation.

“Sherlock,” John said as quietly and soothingly as possible. “Please lower the gun. Look at me. She’s not going to shoot you,” he added with a warning look at Mary. “She’s just worried you might do something stupid. As am I. Please, listen to me, just this once.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded.

“We’re all in this together, okay? I’m with you all the way, Sherlock. All the way.”

He saw Sherlock wavering. He swallowed and lowered the gun a fraction. “That’s it,” John whispered. “We can discuss this all once we’re home, okay?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly, still staring down Mary in a silent battle of wills. Yet slowly, he was coming back to himself, his eyes narrowing, flickering over Mary’s poker face.

“You’re a liar, Mary Morstan,” he stated quietly, a parting shot.

“Yes,” Mary offered. After another moment, she sighed, and slowly lowered her gun back to her side. John breathed a silent breath of relief. “I had to be. But I am not lying now. Mycroft did send me to retrieve the stick. He said he couldn’t have people who worked for him be constantly blackmailed by third parties.”

Finally, the tension went out of Sherlock’s shoulders and he lowered his gun as well. “Sounds like him,” he conceded sulkily.

Mary merely lifted a delicate eyebrow in return. John rolled his eyes, freakishly thankful for the turn of events.

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes dropping to the floor, looking a bit lost. “John—“ he began, but stopped when he saw his face. John suddenly stood completely still, frozen to the spot. _Oh no. Not again, please…_

Sherlock frowned, looking unsure.

John could only stare at the red dot that had appeared on Sherlock’s forehead.

“So glad you worked out your differences,” someone said from the doorway. John’s head snapped up to follow the voice; it sounded like a kind, older woman, yet it was laced with icy steel.

“It wouldn’t be very nice for the two of you to pout at each other the whole trip back to Serbia. I imagine it would get terribly dull,” Vivian Norbury said, standing primly in the doorway, a small gun in her outstretched hand.


	16. In Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the showdown.

**Chapter 16: In Darkness**

 

“I’ll have those,” Vivian Norbury said and nodded to Sherlock’s ( _John’s_ ) gun. Sherlock was still staring at John, unsure what the hell had just happened. He blinked rapidly, adrenaline racing through him. _Pull yourself together, for Christ’s sake,_ an inner voice (which sounded suspiciously like Mycroft)  admonished.

Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath and took in as many details as he could, quickly. John was staring at his forehead with undisguised panic. _Was it Moran_ …? Sherlock let his eyes roam. From the angle he was standing at to the open door, the man had to be in the sitting room; probably in the alcove that led to the kitchen. While they’d been arguing, he’d just casually strolled in and lined up his weapon. Marvellous. Sherlock felt like he wanted to strangle himself. Well, maybe after tonight, he wouldn’t have to.

He tried what he thought was his best ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ expression and briefly locked eyes with John. Then, he slowly placed the gun on the floor and kicked it away. He heard Mary lower her gun to the ground as well. Well, apparently she wasn’t working for the old bat after all. What a marvellous time to be wrong about something.

Sherlock straightened up again slowly. Avoid sudden movements. Don’t give the man an excuse to shoot. When he stood, he noted John had moved a little closer. A warm hand stealthily found its way into his. He held it tight and squeezed reassuringly.

“Oh, none of that, please,” Norbury tutted. She waved her pistol in John’s direction, and he promptly let go again. “I read the blog, so of course I wondered,” she smirked darkly. Sherlock felt his skin crawl when her nasally voice took on a hard edge. “But if you were planning a romantic Christmas together, you really shouldn’t have come here.”

She stepped into the room further, gun still raised, her eyes flickering from Sherlock to Mary. “You had better taken the offer, my dear,” she said, any trace of humour gone. Mary said nothing; she only briefly let her eyes meet Sherlock’s.

“I believe you know my friend, Mr Moran? You’ve had the pleasure in Serbia, I’m told,” she added.

“Not quite yet, we didn’t.” A thick voice and a heavier set of footfalls came closer from the sitting room. The shape of a man appeared, one that Sherlock had hoped never to see up close. He was tall and of a strong build, with his rifle now slung by a strap over his shoulder. On his hip was another holster with a secured handgun and a combat knife was attached to his leg. His hair was buzzed short, only a hint of stubble framing his heavy features. His nose looked like he’d broken it a few times, and there was an ugly looking scar running from the nose almost through his upper lip. He was smiling; the kind of oily smile that promised nothing but unpleasantness.

“About damn time you showed up, _detective,_ ” he sneered. “And you brought the whole merry team, how convenient.” He laughed once, like a bark. He walked closer, brandishing a handful of cable binders. John began to back away, but Norbury’s gun flicked from him back to Sherlock. “Now, Doctor Watson,” she admonished. “Please let’s not cause any trouble. I’d hate to have to rip out the carpets so soon after moving in.”

She moved closer as well. Even if she wasn’t a good shot, she’d certainly hit him from this distance.  Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw a flicker of movement. Mary was tensing up, preparing herself. _She’ll try to make a run for it_. Moran grabbed John’s hands roughly and forced them behind his back. John grunted, but kept his composure, meeting Moran’s eyes with a glare. Sherlock felt his heart thud heavily in his chest at the sight.

He’d only gotten glimpses of the man in Serbia, taking his organisation apart from within, working his way to the top, to get to Moran. He was the last puzzle piece. But Mycroft had pulled the plug on the operation before it was done. Whisked him away to that hovel, kept him at bay with vague intel, only to bring him home after all. Home to John.

The sight of John in the hands of that killer turned his stomach. Usually, anyone who came this close to Moran once wasn’t long for this world.

 _Distraction,_ he thought wildly. He forced his face into a mask of calm, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray him. “Oh yes, because you clearly attach a lot of sentimental value to this place, don’t you, Vivian?” He made sure to overemphasise her name, hoping to get a rise out of her.

Her eyes snapped to Sherlock. “Please spare us, Mr Holmes,” she sighed, but the flicker of annoyance in her face spurred him on.

“How long did you wait after your burden of a husband passed? Three months, was it? Four?” He tutted in mock-sympathy. “And he never got to enjoy all that lovely _retirement money_ you put away.” Sherlock glanced around, making sure to keep Moran in his sight as he manhandled John into submission.

“It’s lovely, really,” he continued, fighting his rapid heartbeat down. “Especially seeing as you’re trying so very hard to make it look like it belongs. It’s just like you. The watercolour landscapes in the hall – you bought them all together but had them framed by different people, why? To make it look like you collected them over a longer period of time than the one you’ve actually lived here.”

Sherlock saw her eyes narrow and Moran looked between him and her, waiting on her word. Interesting. So she was the one pulling the shots here. He barrelled on. “Coming from a lower-class background, you no doubt take all your inspiration for country living from posh magazines. That sitting room screams try-hard, Vivian. The people around here can spot a fake a mile away. You’ve never cross-stitched in your life, and they can tell, believe me.” He raised his eyebrow. “You were nothing but a secretary, and typing’s all you were good for.”

Norbury pressed her lips together in a thin line and gripped the gun a little tighter. “I pulled off stunts our best agents would have been jealous off, Mr Holmes. And not even your brother or his snobbish friends had a clue,” she smirked darkly.

“The brains of an agent?” He smiled back. “I’ll grant you that. And all that genius… just for _this_.” He let his eyes wander over the hideous country décor with as much disdain as he could muster.

For a second, he saw a murderous gleam in her eye. He’d gotten under her skin all right, but it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t one to make a mistake this far down the line. She swallowed and straightened her shoulders. His heart sank.

“Are you done?” She caught Moran’s eyes and jerked her head towards Sherlock. Moran advanced and grabbed his arms to twist them behind his back as well. Norbury’s gun was aimed at John now, who stood helpless, sweat on his brow. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he muttered desperately.

“Frankly, Mr Holmes,” Norbury continued, “I don’t see the fascination other people have with your whole detection _spiel_. It’s somewhat amusing how in awe your poor Doctor Watson is with it. Doesn’t exactly reassure me of the average intellect of our nation’s doctors. I find your so-called _methods_ rather tiresome.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and winced as Moran strapped his wrists together. “As tiresome as killing a good civil servant like Mr Blanchard just on the off-chance he might remember a bunch of tapes he watched five years ago? Turning another woman into a widow?”

“Easier to live with than you think. I probably did her a favour,” Norbury scowled, her tinny voice turning darker. But her attention now went to Mary and she moved closer, digging in her woolly cardigan for another cable tie.

Mary flinched back a step, and Sherlock saw what she was going to do the second before she did. Norbury’s eyes flickered downward to fumble with her pocket.

Mary ducked and rolled.

The movement was so swift and silent that it completely caught Norbury by surprise. She yelped as Mary’s leg collided with her ankles in a broad sweep and toppled her backwards. As she fell, Sherlock felt Moran jump into action. He made to spring forward to block Mary’s path, but then stumbled with a loud grunt. John had pounced on him, even with his arms bound, and shoved him into the desk, which emitted a loud shriek as the legs scraped on the polished floor. Sherlock took the hint and threw his whole weight at Moran as well, trying to keep him occupied. “Run,” he hissed at John, whose eyes widened as he frowned.

Behind them, Mary was already on her feet. She’d grabbed her gun and in two long strides she was at the large French windows, yanking at the handles.

Suddenly, a shot rang out; glass shattered and John and Sherlock ducked instinctively. Norbury yelled, but Mary seemed to be still upright.

Moran began to twist away from them. Sherlock kept his head down and used the movement to ram his shoulder into Moran’s side, hoping to take him down. Unfortunately, the man was built like a brick house. He grunted in pain but remained very much in place. His arms reached out to grapple Sherlock. He wasn’t quick enough, and the bloody desk chair was restricting his movement, so he was easy prey. An arm wound around his torso like a vice.

John, on the other hand, had taken the hint. With a surprising bout of strength he hopped backwards, seating himself on the table. Desk ornaments fell crashing to the floor and paper spilled around them. John leaned backwards, used the momentum to swing up his legs and propel his boots sideways into Moran’s head.

Moran didn’t even flinch. He gripped Sherlock harder around the waist, so much that Sherlock felt his ribs constrict. Any more and he’d crack one. He cried out in pain. “Stop!” Moran shouted, and Sherlock vaguely glimpsed Mary slip out the French windows and into the night.

Moran dove forward to seize a squirming John. Unfortunately, John had used all his leverage in that kick and now he was rather helpless. Moran grabbed him almost effortlessly by the throat, heaved him up and tossed him aside like a rag doll. He hit a shelf and went down in a shower of books and knickknacks.

“John!” Sherlock cried, but his voice was almost a whisper with the pressure currently mounting on his chest. He scrambled with his feet to find purchase, but no luck.

John moaned as he tried to sit up. But it was over. Norbury was by his side in an instant, pointing her gun at his temple. She’d taken a nasty bruise away from her fall and looked decidedly less composed than before.

“I’ll get them to the cellar,” she growled, panting heavily. “Go after her.”

Moran heaved Sherlock up with a grunt and pulled out the knife from his leg holster with the other. “She won’t get far,” he promised.

* * *

John was still trying to catalogue if he’d injured anything when he was heaved to his feet unceremoniously. Moran pushed him forward and then darted after Mary, into the garden. Norbury took him by the collar and nodded at Sherlock to walk in front of her. There was no more sneering or gloating. They were pushed through the house as quickly as possible, and any resistance John might have thought about was snuffed out when he felt the barrel of Norbury’s small gun dig into the back of his neck.

A wooden door at the end of the corridor led to the cellar. She all but pushed them down the stairs; they turned and ended in a small room that smelled vaguely of laundry and storage boxes. A few smaller doors in one wall probably opened up to some kind of old-fashioned larder or perhaps hid a boiler. Norbury opened one of them and prodded John with the gun to step inside. It was dark and the air was stale. Sherlock was pushed in after him and stumbled against John when he lost his balance.

“I could just get it over with and throw you in with the lot in the garden,” she scoffed. “But Mr Moran offered me a sizable reward for you, Mr Holmes, and I know some people who are very interested in seeing the remainder of AGRA out of business. Fine by me, I can always use a bit of small change for bingo,” she added with an arrogant head-tilt. And with that, Norbury slammed the door in their faces and locked it behind them.

“God I could strangle her,” John hissed. “Bloody harpy!” He kicked the door for good measure, but all that did was hurt his toe. He cursed.

In the dark, he felt Sherlock turned to him. He stepped in front of him. “John! Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine,” John breathed, his chest heaving with some relief at least. Finally they were alone and no longer in the firing line of that madwoman. He just wished he had his hands so he could check Sherlock over for injuries. “You?”

Sherlock hummed his agreement. Their bodies brushed against one another in the cramped space, and John was at least reassured by the solid presence of Sherlock next to him. “Jesus,” John murmured, shaking his head. “Right. Daring escape, then?” He tried to barrel on, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. His hands strained against the bindings.

He felt Sherlock move around to give him a bit of space. As far as he’d seen, they were jammed in between two walls of shelves. When he bumped into the wooden construction, he heard the sound of jars chinking together.

“You could have escaped already,” Sherlock replied, his voice subdued.

“What?”

“Upstairs. Instead of attacking Moran you should have made a run for it. Mary had opened the doors. I would have distracted him.”

John let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well it’s certainly pretty ridiculous that you think I’d leave you alone in the hands of that lunatic again.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m not, though, am I?”

“Close enough,” John replied, and for a moment, he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt Sherlock’s head turn and a nose nudge at his hair. He smiled in the darkness. _Together or not at all,_ he thought. _When will you bloody understand that?_

Then, he straightened and took a sharp breath through his nose. “All right. Well. If we broke one of these jars, we could probably cut the bindings.”

“And slice open our wrists while we’re at it,” Sherlock said. “No. Too risky.”

“Can you pick the lock like this?”

“Padlock on the outside, I’m afraid.”

John sighed. Of course the one bloody criminal they met who really thought of everything was the kindly old lady from next door. Obviously. “What then?”

Sherlock turned again, and John felt his bound hands in front of him as Sherlock examined the door. “Stand back,” he ordered, and John stepped backwards until he hit the wall of shelves. Sherlock moved and suddenly, he threw himself against the door with his whole weight.

The door creaked and clanked at the hinges and John heard the padlock rattle. “What the hell?”

“Too bad,” Sherlock grunted in pain. “The door seems quite sturdy, I’m afraid.

“New house, remember?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, it was worth a try,” he added, and John could picture his sheepish face very well.

He felt some of the adrenaline ebb away now, replaced with a painful certainty in his stomach. Suddenly, he felt afraid. He sniffed the air and looked around in the darkness, scuffing his boot against one of the shelves. Finally, he said it. “We’re not getting out of this one by ourselves, are we?”

“Probably not.” Sherlock shuffled back around just as they both heard the rattle of a door from upstairs. John stepped forward to listen. Footsteps were coming closer, and a light shone through the crack under the door.

Suddenly, Norbury’s voice rang out muffled behind the wood. “Whatever you were just doing in there causing such a racket, I’d stop if I were you.” She moved a bit closer. “There aren’t any neighbours that would be alerted and as you noticed, the door is rather solid. I like a good quality cellar, don’t you? The only thing you’re accomplishing is annoying me.” Her voice became hard. “And must I remind you that there’s currently no reward for Doctor Watson. So unless you want me to make up my mind about what to do with him right now: settle down and be quiet.”

Her footsteps receded again before either of them could answer. John felt his shoulders slump.

“Nothing to it,” Sherlock huffed. John heard the rustle of fabric and the creaking of joints as Sherlock lowered himself into a crouch and then dropped backwards with a soft “ _oof_! _”_ to lean against the door. John followed, scraping his hands on the shelf behind him in an effort not to fall over completely. Finally, he settled down with his back against the shelf and his legs squeezed into the small space next to Sherlock’s.

“So this is it, then? We just wait to be picked up in a few hours?”

“Well,” Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft might get here in time.”

John perked up at that. “Do you think Mary got away and contacted him?”

“Oh, she’s very resourceful,” Sherlock said. “And it’s dark. I think she’ll manage to avoid Moran, yes. But Mycroft already knows where we are and the cavalry is surely on its way.”

“You… told Mycroft where we were going?”

“That surprises you?”

“Well, yes, actually,” John huffed a laugh. “You said you were miles ahead of them, I thought—“

“Of course I told Mycroft. I may have my pride but there’s no need to die for it. Though he _was_ supposed to meet us, take Vivian into custody from us with undying gratitude and allow me to gloat that I found her first for every Christmas to come.”

Sherlock sounded incredibly miffed. It would have been funny under different circumstances. “He can gloat about rescuing us all he likes if he gets us out of this one, though,” John said.

Sherlock was quiet. John thought that there was at least the fact that Mycroft had – apparently – sent Mary ahead, though the precise circumstances of that were still a bit unclear to him. Perhaps not a good subject to raise with Sherlock at the moment.

He leaned forward and nudged Sherlock’s knees with his shoulder. He wished he had his hands, but this would have to do. “Sherlock,” he began, his voice quiet. “This may be premature, but if Mycroft doesn’t come and if Moran gets to Mary… I mean—“ he broke off and tried again. “If this is it, if we’re not getting out of this… promise me we’ll try to get away properly? None of that ‘letting yourself be captured to talk to them’ kind of nonsense, yeah? I don’t want you anywhere near that man if I can help it. Not after… So the first chance we get, we take it, even if it’s risky, no questions asked. Promise me.”

John felt a lump in his throat. He was thinking of all the other near-misses that followed Sherlock’s recklessness. The man texted a serial killer on the day they met, for crying out loud. And then of course, he texted Moriarty and met him on that roof. The thought had been at the back of John’s mind all day. The nagging feeling that Sherlock was enjoying all of this a bit too much, again; that he might throw caution out and be tempted back into this game by Moriarty’s right hand man.

Sherlock didn’t respond for a moment, but then he finally sighed and leaned forward as well. “Yes, I agree. I promise, John.”

John felt Sherlock’s breath against the side of his face. He couldn’t see a thing, but they had to be close. “Good,” he murmured, a bit taken aback. He hadn’t outright said it but the implication was clear. They’d been in tough scrapes before, but there had never been a need to discuss it like this. That alone made it seem oddly real: They might not make it out of this alive.

Thinking of this, thinking of the pool and the roof, John said, “I’m glad we’re not alone, either of us.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was a deep rumble next to him.

John remembered how he’d felt back at the Holmes’ house. He had been so undecided how to approach this issue between them, how to confront his feelings for Sherlock. It was too much, too complex… everything had felt so off-kilter. Now, everything felt strangely clear. And easy, for the first time.

Suddenly, the words were just there. “Sherlock… I think I’m in love with you, you know?”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and it sounded loud in the still cellar. John felt his head dip slightly. A stray curl brushed his cheek. Very quietly, Sherlock said, “of course I do.”

John smiled. He leaned his head sideways to rest against Sherlock’s temple. “And… if we get out of this, it’s… all good. I was wrong to push you. It was only… I am still dealing with having you back, I think. It’s not the easiest thing. I’m a bit all over the place.”

Sherlock huffed a small laugh as if to say, _that’s the understatement of the year._ John nudged Sherlock with his nose a little; a substitute for using his hands. “So no matter what you want or what you decide to do, I’m not going anywhere. Especially not with Mary, so get that out of your system for good, all right?”

Sherlock pressed his cheek slightly into John’s face, reciprocating the nudges. “All right,” he murmured. There was a note in his voice that sent a shiver down John’s back. And then, Sherlock turned his head ever so slightly, and his breath ghosted over John’s cheek. Lips were suddenly on his jaw, his cheek, searching and pressing and searching for contact a little awkwardly.

John’s heart stuttered in his chest, questions swirling in his head. _Is this… Can I?_ But then Sherlock’s breath floated across his ear and the sound made some kind of switch flick and he almost acted on autopilot. He tilted his head just so and felt his way along the skin until his mouth found Sherlock’s.

It wasn’t comfortable in the tight space and John’s arms ached from being tied back, but this one point of contact made everything else fade away. Sherlock’s lips were warm and soft; John had almost forgotten the feel of them. Hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it. Now it all came back to him. Images and feelings from their drunken tussle and the half-awake snog the morning after floated through his mind. He wondered if it would always come down to extraordinary situations like these for them to actually have a go at this. He gently pressed closer into Sherlock and wondered if there would be any _ordinary_ situations in their lives again.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. He crowded against John as much as he could, deepening the kiss. It was passionate, but perhaps also something a little closer to the heart, something that made John’s eyes prickle. It hurt, but in a way he wouldn’t have traded that hurt for anything in the world in that moment.

After long minutes, they broke apart, panting slightly. He could still feel the kiss on his lips, the warmth in his chest, the soft skin of the nose against his cheek.

“Here,” Sherlock whispered, leaning back against the door. He wriggled one leg free and pulled it back to place it on John’s other side. “Lean back.” John twisted sideways and leaned against Sherlock’s torso without much grace. He felt himself ensconced between the long legs and a suit-jacketed chest, the woolly coat falling open next to his head. They wriggled around a little for comfort, and finally, it was somewhat manageable. He felt Sherlock relax and rest his head against the door.

John sighed, feeling a heavy weariness drape around his back. “This is good,” he murmured. _Why the hell didn’t we figure this out sooner_ , he wondered idly.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “This isn’t so bad. Stay like this.”

John smiled at his tone. He nestled closer and breathed in Sherlock and thought of everything and nothing. Trying to hold onto hope. Waiting for dawn.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t say how much time passed, in the darkness of the cellar. He was cold and his entire body was aching uncomfortably. His arms and hands had become numb from the bindings, his legs cramped in the small space. The only thing that made up for it was John’s reassuring presence almost on top of him, the head on his shoulder, slightly dozing off. He could detect that familiar smell of home on him, of Baker Street, mixed with the older, more grounded smell of the Holmes house. It was both warm and familiar, a point of comfort.

So John wasn’t annoyed or angry anymore. And what was more, John was in love with him. He wasn’t under the influence of alcohol this time. And John wasn’t the kind of person to say things without thinking (that was more Sherlock’s department, sometimes, he acknowledged). Even though this was a somewhat dramatic, out of the ordinary situation, John wouldn’t say something like that unless he meant it. The words struck him to his core. From what he’d gathered, love meant many different things to different people; but if he knew John the way he thought he did, he felt that he got it exactly the way John meant it.

Sherlock at first couldn’t understand why he felt panicked at the thought. Was this just another thing in his mind that wasn’t wired the way it was supposed to? But the more he thought about it, the more he slowly unravelled it. John made him feel like he’d finally found his way to some kind of home. He’d begun to understand and with understanding came the wanting. He pictured their life together with this new element thrown in and it seemed really… good. He wanted that. And wanting it meant he was now afraid of losing it. _Bloody sentiment, bloody emotions, bloody complicated_ , Sherlock was cursing silently, half awake and half striding around in his mind palace, trying to sort case information from John information, cataloguing the facts he’d picked up in the house alongside the facts about John resting his body against his own.

After a few hours, give or take, he heard footsteps again. He hardly had time to rouse John before the door was opened abruptly and he fell backwards, stiff and awkward from sitting crooked for so long. He grunted as he fell onto his useless hands, John rolling off him with a grunt, and when he looked up, he was met with the grim visage of Sebastian Moran.

“Wakey, wakey, my darlin’s,” he crooned, an ugly smile on his lips. “Aww, have you been cuddling?”

Sherlock heaved his body over to his front, but before he could position himself, Moran had picked him up by his coat collar and pulled him upright. “Bunch of whiny faggots,” he mumbled.

“Hey,” John mumbled from the floor. “Sherlock—!”

Sherlock stumbled into the wall to keep from keeling over again. His legs were pins and needles and he quickly stomped down to get the blood flowing again.

“Shut up, Doctor,” Moran grumbled and picked up John in a similar manner, depositing him on his feet. His expression told Sherlock how much he enjoyed seeing them disoriented like this, but the rest of his body told him even more.

_Streaks of branches and minor cuts to clothes and skin: he followed Mary into the small wooded area, she would have sought out the cover of the trees. If he’d found the truck, he’ll gloat about it, so we’ll see. No blood or faint bruises on his knuckles: he hasn’t caught Mary. She wouldn’t have come without a fight, and he doesn’t look like he’s been in one. Looks rather disappointed, in fact, and so he’ll take out his cruel streak on us instead of on Mary. But she got away._

Moran was holding a gun in one hand, but it was obvious he didn’t need it. They were hardly in the position to mount physical resistance. So Sherlock was quiet and merely exchanged a look with John. He tried to convey what he knew, but as they were both blinking in the bright light it was difficult. Definitely not the right moment for an escape though, he hoped John understood that much.

Moran grabbed both their coats together with one hand and pushed them forward, gun pointed at them. “God, the pair of you,” he sneered as he drove them forwards.  His voice was dark and full of annoyance. “Due respect to Jim, he was a genius, but I never knew what he saw in you. And your _pet_! I had to watch you for _weeks_!” Sherlock felt cold trickle down his spine. He had told John that he’d been under surveillance not just from Mycroft. But that it had been _Moran_ on the other end…

“God, the fuckin’ pining. What a fuckin’ awful life you lead, _Doctor_ ,” he mocked, spitting out the word. “Bloody tedious, that was. And useless. All so I can find out this _murderer_ is alive from the bloody newsagent’s.”

Sherlock felt John twitch next to him. He wondered if he’d say something. But John was staring ahead, resolutely pressing his lips together. Pissed off, but not rising to the bait. Sherlock let out a little breath of relief.

“Well, you’ll get what’s coming to you now, the both of you. I nearly had you in Serbia, or so my friends told me later.”

They made their way up the stairs and back into the house. Moran shoved them in the direction of the front door. The dull, grey light of a wintery morning sifted through the corridor. “This time, you won’t make a run for it. And I know some places even your twat of a brother doesn’t know about.”

 _I wouldn’t be so sure about that_ , Sherlock thought.

“We’ll have a wonderful time, you and I.” _And John? What would he do with him?_

Through the door and onto the noisy gravel path. The air was icy cold now, a thick, impenetrable early morning fog lying thickly all around them. In front of the cottage stood a black, nondescript van. _Oh please,_ Sherlock scoffed in his mind. _Could they be any more obvious?_

John twisted a little in Moran’s grip and caught Sherlock’s eye. This was it, he knew. Once they were on the road, it would be harder to find them, harder to escape. If they stayed here, Mycroft knew at least where to look. They had to get away now.

John furtively cast his eyes around. The motor was still running and a figure was sitting at the wheel, ready to go. Another black-clad figure stood guard next to the cottage door. Sherlock wondered where Norbury had gotten to; was she simply asleep in bed? Or was she watching, making sure it all went off without a hitch?

Moran pushed them to the back of the van and held onto their bindings with one hand. He pulled the handle and levered open the two back doors with the other. Sherlock felt his heart speed up and adrenaline kick in. _Ready to flee, ready to run_. He locked eyes with John, who nodded, his jaw set.

Suddenly, a shot rang out, followed by a yell. The three of them instinctively ducked. Then, a loud bang and a hissing sound. Shouting from the front of the car. Moran shoved them forward. John stumbled, his head hitting the floor of the van, grunting in pain. Sherlock painfully banged his shoulder against the open door, scrambling, trying to stay on his legs. They heard footsteps, more shouting.

“Sergej!” Moran yelled and stepped carefully to the side of the open wing of the door. He gripped his pistol tightly.

Another shot; the noise of shattering glass, a thud. And no more shouting from the front of the van. Just as Moran was about to move, there was one more shot and the loud hissing sound. Sherlock felt the van sag; someone had shot the wheels. _Good girl_ , he thought. He nudged into John and nodded. “Don’t you two sissies move,” Moran hissed at them. He sounded on edge and turned around to reach for them. Sherlock reacted quickly and shoved John forward. “Go, now,” he said and they ran.

Moran tried to grab his coat, but too late. They darted around the edge of the car just in time.

The man next to the cottage was gone, probably in search of their mystery attacker. Sherlock glanced back at the van; both wheels on this side had been shot, so Mary would be… yes. “Other side of the house. Quickly,” he didn’t wait for John to respond, he just ran. This was a small place and every second counted. In the stillness of the fog, he heard the footsteps following them, but it was probably not clear to Moran where exactly they’d turned off. Hopefully.

John reached the corner of the cottage and dashed around it. Sherlock threw himself after him and pressed against the wall, listening.

Footsteps suddenly approached from their other side. His head snapped around, only to see Mary sneak towards them across the back terrace. He sighed in relief. She didn’t say anything, merely pulled out a small knife. She cut his hands free first, then turned to John.

His bands snapped free just as the sound of feet on gravel approached again. The three of them froze. Mary stepped forward; then, without hesitation, she turned the corner and fired. Sherlock felt John’s hand grab his and he held on tightly as they followed her. The third man was lying on the path with a bullet in his forehead. Mary sidestepped the body and stopped only at the front of the cottage. She pushed herself up against the wall. Sherlock and John exchanged a look. John’s eyebrows rose as he glanced at the corpse. He blinked. _Nice shot_ , Sherlock thought. _Could have used someone like that in Serbia_. Maybe Mycroft wasn’t a complete idiot for hiring her. Sherlock tugged on John’s hand and they pressed themselves against the wall as well, sneaking after Mary to the front of the house.

For a moment, there was only their combined breathing that could be heard. Then, the soft crunch of the gravel. Moran was on the other side of the front, but then he stopped. Waited, listened.

“ _Try and take him_?” Sherlock barely whispered into Mary’s ear. She hesitated, then shook her head. Sherlock nodded. She was the one with the gun, she called the shots. Moran wasn’t going anywhere. Much better to let backup handle this.

“ _Our car_ ,” he continued. She nodded.

He gripped John’s hand tightly as they began to move. Mary held out her gun with outstretched hands, slowly stepping around the corner. “ _Go_ ,” she murmured, and began walking backwards as quickly as she could.

No more time for stealth; Sherlock ran, and John followed. They dashed across the beautiful winter lawn, past the bird bath and the stupid ornaments, their feet crunching in the frozen grass. They made it to the first tied-up bush when they heard another shot. Mary had seen Moran and fired a warning shot towards the house, not to hit, but to keep him away long enough.

Sherlock heard John’s rhythmic breathing next to him, his mind beating a refrain of _run_ _faster, get to the trees_. His legs were longer, but John was strong and trained. Despite his long absence, he remembered what this felt like, the running on a case, running for their lives, and on some level he loved the familiarity of it.

Another shot. Feet crunching on gravel. Mary must have turned her back in favour of running as well. Fair enough. He just hoped it had done enough.

“Stop!” Moran’s voice rang out in the stillness, and Sherlock heard him pick up the chase.

A few more yards and they would reach some semblance of cover. Just a few more—

A sharp tug on his arm as John stumbled and let go of Sherlock’s hand even as Sherlock called, “John!” He stopped to help him, but John fell forwards, rolled, clambered to his feet again—“run,” he urged with teeth clenched in pain, and they were running again, Mary close on their heels now, and Sherlock had barely turned when a shot rang out behind them.

He looked over his shoulder to see Moran gaining on them, but then John, ahead of them, reached the trees and was flinging himself between them, trying to get cover; Moran suddenly stopped short and took a second to aim properly and Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to be fast enough—

“No!” Mary cried and Sherlock saw her bolting towards him, changing direction in the split-second it took Moran to line up and shoot and another loud bang cut the air around them, the sound immediately swallowed by the thick fog.

Mary stumbled into him and they both went down, just by the edge of the small grove. Sherlock lay on his side, Mary almost in his arms, and he felt something warm and sticky on his hand, running down his arm. There was pain somewhere, but he didn’t know how bad and what had happened. “Mary,” he whispered, and then the crunched footsteps came closer on the grass and he knew he had one chance to get this right.

Sherlock let his head loll down into the grass, let his bloodstained hand drop limp on his chest and went still.

* * *

John pressed his back against one of the larger trees. His breath came out in foggy huffs, his chest heaving painfully, sucking in the icy air. He’d made it as far as he could without Moran spotting him. His ankle throbbed painfully, probably sprained it when he fell. The adrenaline helped to ignore it. Ahead of him, he thought he could see the silhouette of their SUV, a black blur between the trees, obscured by the fog. If he could make it there, he’d have proper cover, for one, and perhaps Sherlock had stashed another weapon in it? He usually thought of everything. _Sherlock,_ he thought, clenching his hand that was now growing cold. Suddenly, a second shot rang out and he heard someone yell—

He heard the crunch of dead leaves and sticks at the edge of the trees and a heavy thud of a body ( _bodies?_ ) falling. Then, all was still.

_Oh God not again, please no, no no_

John’s fingers dug into the bark behind his back, his heart racing. He suddenly felt the weight of being _alone_. No Mycroft anywhere. He couldn’t hear Sherlock or Mary; both might be—

Just him and Moran, then. Good.

He heard Moran’s gruff voice then, quietly beyond the trees. “Ah, fuck,” he cursed.

John felt like an icy fist clenched around his heart. There was really only one reason for him to say that. He risked it. He leaned around the tree to glance briefly back from where he’d come, and the sight nearly stopped his heart then and there. Sherlock was on his back, lifeless; a flash of red. Just like when—

John felt his breath stutter and he braced himself. His thoughts went blissfully blank. No time to think, no time to process. Only one job left to do now.

He heard the footsteps coming closer. Moran was being quiet, but a man built like him had a hard time sneaking over frozen leaves and underbrush. John controlled his breathing. _Quiet, quiet…_

“The game is over, Doctor Watson,” the voice meandered through the fog, sickly with anger. “Just you and me left now.” John swallowed. _Ignore him ignore him ignore him_

“We were both so loyal, you and I, and look how they left us. What does a pet do without his master?” Moran’s voice was a shadowy snarl and John felt the darkness encroach on his vision.

_What do I do?_

“Easy,” he said and lunged.

His shoulders connected with Moran’s midriff, toppling him as John intended. Moran hadn’t seen him and let out a shout of surprise as he went down. John felt some kind of muscle memory take over what he understood he was doing; blocking punches, grabbing a wrist, twisting it; but then he was flipped over on the hard, frozen ground and only narrowly evaded a punch.

With a twist of his torso, he managed to roll away, only to feel his legs grappled like in a vice. Moran glared up with hatred in his eyes as he slowly tried to pull himself up whilst holding John down. The gun was nowhere he could see and he frantically tried to scramble away, trying to spot it. However, pain shot up his leg from his ankle and he cried out as Moran squeezed his hold on him tighter.

Finally, with one last ditch effort, John heaved himself into a half-sitting position and crashed his clasped fists into Moran’s head. But the man barely winced and instead lunged upwards. His head connected with John’s forehead with a crack. For a second, John saw black and only regained his senses when the back of his head hit the ground. He tasted blood on his tongue and his vision was blurry. He felt a hand at his collar yank him upwards and he thought he might throw up.

“Stand up,” Moran growled and he felt himself pushed backwards against a tree.

John blearily opened his eyes and found himself faced with the barrel of the gun.

“That’s better,” Moran said, a little out of breath. There was a trickle of blood running down his chin as well and a bruise was forming on his head. But he wasn’t stopping, there was no hesitation, no speeches, John knew. This was it.

“Standing up, eyes open. Like a soldier, Doctor Watson,” Moran said, and there was almost a hint of respect in his voice. His finger tightened around the trigger.

The shot fell. And then another, and another.

John winced, expecting to fall. His heart was hammering in his chest. _What_ —

Suddenly, two, then three red stains began blooming on Moran’s chest, one just over his heart. His eyes went wide and he half-turned, then staggered and fell with a heavy thud into the dead leaves.

John blinked. Then he looked up.

Sherlock was lying on the ground just a few yards away, on his stomach, a gun in his outstretched hand. He was breathing heavily— _he was_ _breathing_ —

John stumbled forwards before he even knew what he was doing. He quickly let his eyes drop to Moran for a moment, but the man’s eyes were open and unseeing, his blood quickly darkening the ground.

He took a few more steps and fell to his knees. “Sherlock—“ His hands grasped for the coat, his head, his arms, trying to reassure himself that he was fine— “I thought—“

Sherlock sat up and stilled his hands. “Mary,” he choked out, “check Mary, she’s— she took the bullet—I—I was supposed to—“

“Oh God,” John whispered when he saw the blood.

Sherlock seemed unharmed. John pushed down the pain that had seized him, the urge to wrap his arms around him, the nausea and blurriness from his head. Mary was lying next to Sherlock, and it was obvious now that it was her blood; she was holding her side with both hands, panting rapidly, shivering. Her face had gone deathly pale, perspiration gathering on her forehead. John quickly assessed the angle, guessed where she was approximately shot and knew that it wasn’t good. His battlefield training kicked in and he patted his jacket for anything—

“Here,” Sherlock said hurriedly, his voice breaking. He held out his scarf.

John grabbed it and put it next to him, then he tore off his jacket. He placed it in front of Mary on the ground. “Okay, Mary, hey…” he gently brushed his fingers over her cheek. “This is going to hurt, okay? Stay with us, all right?”

She ground her teeth together and nodded. “I need to check—“ he gently rolled her shoulders forward. “Help me,” he told Sherlock, who knelt by her legs. Together, they managed to get her on her side.

“It went through,” John assessed and picked up his jacket. “Her knife,” John said, and Sherlock glanced down her body and nodded. He gently pried the knife out of a holster by her side and handed it to John. His jacket was quickly cut and ripped into two pieces and John bunched it together into one lump for the back and one for the back. He secured them in place by wrapping Sherlock’s scarf around them as tightly as he could. Mary cried out in pain and he whispered encouraging nothings as he usually did with patients. He tried to give her a brave smile and stroked her hair. “It’ll be all right,” he repeated. Mary grimaced.

“John,” Sherlock urged. “We need to move. Can we get her to the car? Norbury is still armed and we’re in no condition for another round.”

“Yes,” John frowned. “I’ll—“

“I’ll carry her, you’ve got enough to worry about,” Sherlock nodded at John’s ankle.

“Careful,” John winced as Sherlock gathered Mary in his arms. She moaned, but John knew they had to get away, as much as that would aggravate her wounds.

They jogged through the trees as quickly as they managed, John steeling himself against the pain from his ankle and Mary trying to hold back whimpers. Sherlock was completely concentrated, but even he looked worried and unsettled.

Finally, they reached the bloody SUV. John yanked the back door open and then dashed to the boot of the car. He dug out the standard-issue medical kit. Sherlock propped up Mary in the backseat and was taking his long coat off. He spread it on the large leather seats. John climbed in from the other side and together, they lowered Mary carefully to lie down.

Sherlock left them to it and went to sit in the front seat, tapping rapidly on his phone. John hoped Mycroft could organise them the quickest airlift to the nearest hospital. He did what he could with the limited medical supplies in the kit, then re-wrapped the scarf around the wounds tightly and then, for good measure, wrapped Mary up in Sherlock’s coat for warmth.

Sherlock turned on the car and cranked up the heating. Warm air began slowly seeping into them from the vents. Mary was still shivering, though. “Hang in there,” John whispered.

“Trying,” Mary ground out, her breathing still too rapid.

John rested a hand on her forehead. “Thank you for getting us out,” he said. “We hoped you would.” Mary smiled a little through the pain. “Did you really jump in front of the bullet?” John couldn’t help himself. But perhaps it was also a good idea to distract her a little.

Mary nodded jerkily. “Moran—was—“ she breathed, and John shushed her gently.

“I don’t know how you did that,” John murmured. “But I don’t care. You saved his life. Thank you,” he managed, feeling overwhelmed. A tear threatened to fall, and he sniffed quickly, trying to pull himself together.

“S-saw you,” she choked, “without him, John—“ her voice broke off as she dragged in another pained breath. “Posh git,” she managed, and John let out a watery chuckle. He briefly rested his forehead against hers and smoothed back her hair. “He is, isn’t he?”

“B-ut—you love him,” she managed, a weak smile on her pale lips.

“Yeah, I do,” John nodded, feeling that tear escape his eye and he gripped her hand tightly. “And you knew it all along, didn’t you? Now quiet, relax, help will be here soon. And you’ll make it home just so you can cash in an unlimited amount of favours for saving our arses, all right? Just keep still and—and—we’ll get you out as soon as Mycroft gets here.”

 _Please let them be on time_ , John thought. He held her hand, just hoping, waiting—

Finally, he felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. In the distance, he heard the sound of a helicopter. “They’re here.”

Just as he took a breath of relief, covering Sherlock’s bloodstained hand with his own, they heard the shot. It pinged off the metal of the car, and both he and Sherlock quickly ducked down into the bottom of the car.

They heard footsteps. John glanced around wildly and cursed himself for leaving Moran’s gun where it was. Mary whimpered and he gripped her hand tighter. Through the seats, he exchanged a look with Sherlock in the front. The helicopter noise was growing louder. “It’s over, Vivian,” Sherlock called against the din.

“So it is,” her voice rang out from the outside, almost careless. Another shot – sounded like a shotgun – exploded and glass shattered over their heads, the doors of the car now riddled with indentations.

Search lights cut through the fog and ran over the car, blinding John, so he closed his eyes. _Bloody finally_.

Another voice rang out, metallic and loud through the deafening noise. “Lower the gun, Mrs Norbury, and step away from the car.”

 _Mycroft_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, another one of those chapters that I've been writing in my head for ages. Also one of the longest. FINALLY! Nearly done, now. :-)
> 
> Also my notes had a little summary of this chapter as a reminder for myself when writing, and the notes literally ended with "Then: Mycroft, helicopters, ambulances, etc…" xD


	17. Into the New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things draw to a close.

**Chapter 17: Into the New Year**

* * *

 

_It was the 24 th of December and Mycroft had a plan. There was activity elsewhere in the Holmes house. As far as he was able to tell, it seemed that Sherlock and John had a bit of a hungover lie-in, Mummy was already peeling potatoes and Father was probably up to some last minute Christmas gift wrapping in the shed. He found Mary alone in the sitting room; she was curled up in an armchair, wrapped in a warm blanket, her feet folded under her and a book on her lap._

_“Mary,” he greeted. “May I?”_

_“It’s your house,” she smirked, putting her book aside._

_Mycroft sat in the other arm chair and crossed his legs. “I hope you are comfortable here?”_

_“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, gesturing to the homey décor. Of course, Mummy did make an effort, Mycroft allowed. If that was the sort of thing one liked._

_“I meant spending Christmas with strangers,” he added delicately._

_“Oh,” she waved him off. “I would have hung out at my friend’s house getting sloshed, so I think I prefer this, death threats or no. You have a really nice family. Who would have thought?” She laughed and Mycroft rolled his eyes._

_“Yes well, some of them,” he cleared his throat. She was definitely cheeky. Not something he usually allowed with employees, but perhaps a bit of fresh air…_

_They were silent for a moment, then Mary said, “…but why am I_ really _here?”_

_Mycroft nodded. “Yes, this is why I came to talk to you. I have a job for you.”_

_“Oh?” She looked not surprised in the slightest._

_“When he’s not worrying over the drama of his relationship to Dr Watson,” Mycroft began, “my brother is currently working tirelessly to figure out where our dear Mrs Norbury is hiding. I have an inkling that he might be close.”_

_He leaned forward a little. “I believe he has learnt a few things about safety precautions in his… stay abroad. He will tell me the address as soon as he knows. But he is still an egotist and loves to show off. He will make arrangements to go after Norbury himself.”_

_Mary frowned. “Can’t you talk to him? Make a plan together?”_

_Mycroft smiled at her, but without humour. “It’s… complicated. Over the years I’ve developed a way of getting him to do approximately what I want without him knowing. It’s worked all right so far.”_

_“And… how do I come into this?” There was a glint in her eye. Mycroft thought he knew why._

_“I want you to follow wherever they’re going. I’m going to advise Sherlock to just look for evidence. A little reconnaissance if you want. I don’t want anyone getting hurt or some kind of hostage situation. Scope out the place, then report back to me. But just in case, you can be their backup if things go wrong.”_

_“You expect things to go wrong?”_

_“I know my brother,” he said with a shrug._

_“Why are you asking me? Surely you have qualified teams for this sort of thing?”_

_“Oh yes, but none have submitted quite such a convincing application.” Mycroft smiled and watched as it slowly dawned on her._

_“I was wondering when you’d bring that up,” she said slowly, glancing at him a little warily. As if it occurred to her now that she was in the family home of a man who could have her disappear without a trace. And she’d broken into his office._

_“Yes. Quite gutsy, I’ll give you that. You left no trace but also made it obvious that it was you. You even impressed Sherlock,” he added, and saw her smile in surprise. “He told me to hire whoever it was on the spot.”_

_Mary let out a small laugh. “I hadn’t thought about it like that at the time.”_

_“Nevertheless, it did prove to be a most successful demonstration of your skills. I need someone who can be stealthy and is not afraid to use unorthodox methods to get the task done. Some of my people are just a bit too textbook, on occasion.”_

_“Right,” she scoffed. “And I bet most of them are a bit harder to get rid off if things do go wrong.”_

_“Quite.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “In addition, if you cannot avoid running into Sherlock and John: they know you. They’ll trust you more than one of my agents.”_

_“Sherlock doesn’t trust me,” she said carefully._

_“John does,” Mycroft countered. “Sherlock listens to him, if no one else.”_

_Mary didn’t look convinced, but let the matter rest._

_“Oh, and one more thing,” Mycroft continued. “I also want you to retrieve whatever material Norbury or your friend Ajay still have on you.”_

_Now Mary looked genuinely surprised. “Why? What’s it to you?”_

_“I want you safe and unimpeachable.” He spread his hands in a vague motion._

_“Why, Mr. Holmes, I didn’t think you cared. I’m flattered.”_

_Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “Very amusing.”_

_“Aw, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush,” she teased._

_Mycroft got up with a huff and walked over to the fireplace, not sure he was up for the banter at the moment. “Actually, I was going to offer you a more permanent position once all this is over,” he said to the grate and then glanced over his shoulder to gauge her reaction._

_Mary’s smile slipped off her face at once. “Why?”_

_“Because you’re good at this sort of thing.”_

_“I’m also good at nursing.” Her lips tightened a little._ A touchy subject _, Mycroft noted._

_“No doubt,” he said. “How about… we leave this matter open for now. Get the stick and any other material you find. I can’t have people working for me who are possible security risks. Blackmail or scores to settle aren’t reliable parameters.” He shrugged. “And then even if you decide to decline my offer, you’ll be safe to go back to nursing or whatever else you might want to do.”_

_She looked at him for a while, stony-faced. Calculating. “All right,” she finally said. “Send me the address as soon as you know and organise transport. I’ll be ready.”_

* * *

Mary was cold to the touch. Her skin was covered in a thin sheet of sweat and she was incredibly pale. But she was still breathing. Mycroft let go of her hand as the paramedics took over. They bundled her onto a stretcher and rushed her into the waiting air ambulance. She’d be taken to Plymouth for emergency surgery and then transferred to London as soon as she was stable. So far, the paramedics were not looking too worried. Sherlock assured the medics that he needed no immediate treatment and decided to follow to the hospital later.

John looked as if he wanted to ride with Mary, but then, with a glance at Sherlock, seemed to decide otherwise. He mumbled something about _letting them do their job_ and then retreated, looking worried as the helicopter took off.

Mycroft could see that John was injured. Favouring his right foot, he went to sit in the backseat of the SUV. His hands were still covered in Mary’s blood, and he closed his eyes. He looked like he was about to pass out from exhaustion, but he was still alert, still tensed. Sherlock stood next to Mycroft, ready to report, but he kept sneaking looks at John, making sure he was okay.

Norbury had already been taken into custody. Anthea was riding with her in a secure car, making sure she’d arrive back in London safely. The Cornish countryside was now crawling with professionals, securing the area.

Sherlock’s report was quick and to the point. He informed him of at least two more bodies in the garden shed, handed over Mary’s A.G.R.A. stick without a single word and then seemed to want nothing more to do with the whole thing. He was a little pale. Somehow, the ordeal of that night, or perhaps something else, had really shaken him. Mycroft decided to leave the gloating for another day.

He finally sent Sherlock and John to another helicopter with instructions to take them to Plymouth hospital as well, where they could all reconvene. Finally, he pulled out his phone and made a call. It only rang once before he got an answer.

“Myc! Oh thank goodness! Where is everyone?!”

“Merry Christmas, Mummy.”

* * *

Sherlock watched the grey morning landscape beneath him vanish into the fog. He felt cold and tired and not at all triumphant at finishing the case. People had died unnecessarily – not something he relished. It made for such messy endings.

And then there was Mary. She’d jumped in front of a bullet for him. He felt strangely agitated when he thought about it, like his gut was twisting uncomfortably, and he felt oddly angry at himself. _Shame_ , he thought. He usually wasn’t too affected by what societal constraints other people put up with and so wasn’t ashamed to act inappropriately if it benefited the case. But this was different. Personal. He had accused her of lying and made a complete arse of himself and what did she do? She saved his life.

“Biscuit?”

Sherlock startled out of his gloomy reverie. “What?”

John was squeezed into the backseat of the helicopter next to him, his large headset clacking against Sherlock’s. He was holding the Christmas napkin Sherlock had used to wrap his biscuits in late last night. John’s lips moved, he spoke into the microphone attached to his headset. The voice that reached Sherlock’s ears sounded a bit metallic and thin. “I said, would you like a biscuit? Not exactly a stakeout anymore, I know, but we never had the chance…”

Sherlock blinked. Finally, he nodded and took one. It was mostly crumbs now, falling apart in his hand. “Thank you.”

John nodded back, content. Without ceremony, he begun nibbling his own. His other hand, still bloody, found Sherlock’s, interlaced their fingers, and kept them both on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock curled his fingers around John’s and left them there for the entire flight.

* * *

At Plymouth hospital it took about all of five minutes before Sherlock felt like he was crawling out of his skin. He’d already berated the first three nurses who dared to wish him a Happy Christmas or anything of the sort; only John’s admonishing glare kept him silent now. He even consented to have someone check him over when John was taken in to get his ankle looked at. Once he had a clean bill of health he was back in the waiting area, alone with his thoughts.

He busied himself with actually replying to Mummy’s texts with a brief acknowledgement of their status. He made himself three cups of tea. He even went so far as to inform Lestrade that his British Ambassador case was solved and then ignored the next five texts that demanded further information.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of wandering his mind palace, Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts by John’s voice.

“Hey there.”

Sherlock stopped, blinking, the reality of the morning hitting home. _John._

John was fine. John was alive. It was over.

He stood and gave him a cursory once-over. His hair was ruffled and dirty from his tussle with Moran, and he sported a dark purplish bruise on the side of his head. He’d washed away the blood from his face and hands. His ankle was encased in a slender brace – just twisted, then, nothing broken or torn. And to top it off….

“A cane.”

John grimaced. “I know. Takes you back, doesn’t it?”

It did. Images of John on their first day together flitted through Sherlock’s mind. He had them all neatly catalogued and stored away; in the months he was gone he had to force himself not to dwell on them too much, lest he lose his focus.

There was absolutely no focus now. His nerves, his heart, his very cells suddenly felt exposed as the images battered him from every angle. John’s smile, John’s tentative attempts at flirting ( _unrecognized at the time_ ), John’s stalwart support and admiration.

He saw the same and more in his eyes now. And suddenly, there was only one answer to quiet the confusion in his mind.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, but it wasn’t just the answer to John’s question. It was the answer to _everything_.

He stepped closer until their chests nearly touched and gently placed his hands on John’s shoulders. He felt John suck in a small gasp. Sherlock let one hand wander upwards, caressing his neck and gently brushing his fingertips over the bruise. John winced a little, even as a smile spread on his lips. _Pleasure despite the pain? Endorphins? Psychological response? Strong painkillers? Or…_   Sherlock’s thoughts stuttered to a halt when he felt a hand at his side and slowly sliding round to his back. He had to remind himself to breathe, to just stay in the moment.

“Sherlock,” John huffed. Reverent, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. Sherlock knew the feeling well by now. “Thought I’d lost you again— “ his voice broke.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, because he honestly didn’t know what else to say. It only felt necessary to reassure John. “I’m okay,” he repeated. His hand still rested on John’s cheek as he studied his eyes.

Something in his voice seemed to give off the wrong impression, however. He felt the hand on his back slip away and the warmth of John’s body recede a little. John cleared his throat. “Um, yes, sorry, I—was just—“ he stammered, drawing back.

“I know,” Sherlock murmured, with a small frown. “Me too.” Because he _was_. _Just_ … He tightened his hold and let his fingers on John’s cheek wander into his hair. He pulled him close and lowered his head, keeping eye contact, waiting to be rebuffed. But John’s lips parted and his eyes fluttered close, so Sherlock followed suit. When his lips found John’s, the tension from his shoulders finally released.

John was warm and soft and strangely familiar, as if they’d been doing this forever. An involuntary sigh escaped his nose and with that, the hand around his back tightened its hold. John kissed him back carefully, not too insistent; but his fingers curled into the fabric of Sherlock’s jacket, holding on with a certain desperation. Sherlock was drowning in it. John smelled of home and antiseptic, of danger and gunpowder, and he tried to catalogue the sensations of this scent enveloping him, of soft lips, breath, skin, yielding, pressing, slowly taking—but they were soon pattering on his mind like rain, quieting his thoughts.

Suddenly, John’s tongue darted forward and ran over his lower lip – and Sherlock’s conscious will finally dissolved into nothingness. He could not stop his own lips from parting slightly in response and John took that as an invitation to suck lightly on his lower lip. With a full-body shudder, Sherlock let his other hand encircle John’s shoulders to draw him flush against his chest. Neither of them really registered the cane clattering to the floor.

The rest was beautiful white noise. John’s heart beat steadily against his own. Everything melted under John’s hands and lips, wrapping them both in a bubble of quiet for the time being.

* * *

After what may have been quite some time, Sherlock began to slowly take in his surroundings again. John was gently drawing back, still punctuating his departure with a few stray kisses, but it was obvious from the slight twitch in his cheek that his foot was bothering him.

“Your ankle is hurting you,” Sherlock rasped, his voice pitched low.

John let out a deep breath and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s sternum for a moment. It was such a gesture of trust and affection that it nearly stole Sherlock’s breath all over again. Warmth spread out from that point. It felt as if John had firmly lodged himself within his chest cavity, where his heart should have been.

John winced. “Yeah,” he groaned, and shifted his weight. Sherlock grabbed both his elbows and tried to take some of the weight off his legs.

“Come on,” he urged, and guided John to a chair. He pulled one of the opposite chairs towards them and helped John to put his feet up before he lowered himself in the chair next to him. Before Sherlock could think too much about it, he placed his arm around John’s shoulders and drew him a little closer. For a second, Sherlock was afraid John would want to talk about things, but to his intense relief, John merely let out a contented sigh and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock let the warmth in his chest spread and gently laid his head against John’s, trying to commit as much of this moment as possible to memory.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like this. John seemed to nod off at some point, and Sherlock let him, his thumb rubbing slow circles on John’s shoulder. After brushing John off on Christmas Eve, he hadn’t been sure John would allow his advances until he made some bold declarations or explained himself. And he really wasn’t in the mood for long explanations at the moment. All in all, this was _amazing_. Not perfect, not by far, considering everything that had happened, but… He decided that only a hospital-wide emergency or news of Mary would be able to tempt him to get up.

As it was, the latter came first. Sherlock stiffened a little and looked up. A doctor was walking towards them with a chart in hand. He cleared his throat unnecessarily when he got closer. John sobered immediately and got up, picking up his cane. This meant news.

“Yes,” Sherlock said and stood behind John, straightening his rumpled jacket.

“Dr John Watson,” John said and held out his hand, which the man shook, straightening a little. The brief smile of recognition told him that introductions were unnecessary, but he did it all the same. “And Sherlock Holmes.”

The doctor nodded politely. But he was already smiling and John slowly felt his stomach unclench. “I am happy to inform you that she is fine. She was quite lucky. Her internal injuries were less severe than we first thought. She’d lost a lot of blood, but she is stable now. She’ll be in recovery, sleeping for most of the morning,” he continued, glancing from John to Sherlock and back, the ‘ _perhaps get some rest yourselves’_ heavily implied.

“Thank you. That’s very good news,” John breathed and suddenly realised that a tear had formed in his eyes. He hastily wiped it away, but Sherlock put a steadying hand on his shoulder in response. John sniffed and placed his own hand on top of Sherlock’s. “Good,” he said again, and the doctor looked away a little awkwardly to let them have a moment.

John sighed. This was the last piece of their morning that had to be resolved. Even though they had both been involved with this from the start, John still felt responsible for what happened to her. He knew he would have never forgiven himself if she had died because of their stupidity.

The surgeon shifted on his feet. “Um, I know we’ve been told by some government people not to discuss any of this but—“ he hesitated and swallowed. “But I just wanted to say that whatever happened, I’m glad you are both all right as well. My, uh, husband and I were fans of the blog,” he added with a smile.

“Oh,” John said, and smiled back, surprised. _Were…? Before the Fall, of course_. He’d have to pick that up again. “Thank you, and… that’s much appreciated. Merry Christmas to you both, then.” He cleared his throat. He hadn’t given any thought to being seen with Sherlock by anyone in the hospital – it seemed so far away from London and sometimes he forgot that the media circus around Sherlock’s return was barely over a week old. So now they had been sitting in an intimate embrace for hours, for everyone to see. He suddenly felt oddly proud and stood a little straighter.

The doctor nodded. “And to you,” he said, looking genuinely pleased and then quickly left before things became awkward.

John let out a breath. Mary was fine, Sherlock was kissing him again, and now these kind words by a stranger; he felt exhausted with relief.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, and let his arm drop back. John turned and saw that his other hand was busy on his phone again. He grabbed his coat and put it on, then grabbed the cane again to steady himself.

“Where are we going?”

“Hotel. You need some sleep. We’re not going back to London before we’ve seen her anyway, and this—“ he held out his phone, which showed a hotel website “—looks much more suitable than these chairs.”

John grinned. “Oh I don’t know, I think I developed a certain fondness for them now,” he murmured, bumping his shoulder into Sherlock’s as he pulled on his own jacket.

“John,” Sherlock admonished and made an impatient noise, as if he’d never heard anything so sentimental. But John saw a smile play in the corner of his lips.

They walked to the hospital lobby and John excused himself for a moment to hobble to the small shop he found by the entrance. When he came back with a bag of basic toiletries and toothbrushes, Sherlock joined him, walking slowly, giving John time to hobble alongside him to the hospital exit. Before they went outside, John glanced back once and spotted Mycroft standing at the end of the corridor, giving them both an almost fond smile before the serious expression slipped back, he straightened his tie and turned away. John thought he probably imagined it.

* * *

If John was a little anxious about sharing a hotel room with Sherlock at this point, he soon found he needn’t have been. Sherlock had booked them a double room without so much as a by-your-leave and let John fret for the entire taxi ride, deep in thought. However, as soon as they got to their room, Sherlock tossed his coat and jacket over a chair and toed off his shoes by the side of the bed. John watched with a bemused smile as 6 feet of consulting detective simply keeled over on the bed, seemingly dead to the world.

John hobbled to the bathroom and got himself cleaned up, brushed his teeth and already felt miles better. When he came back into the room, Sherlock was still sprawled on his stomach, his arms curled around one of the crisp white pillows, and he seemed to be dozing off.

John switched the light off in the tiny bathroom and regarded him fondly. He glanced at the bleak winter light coming in from the floor length window and closed the curtains as tightly as possible. Then he took off his shoes and stripped down to his pants and vest, draping his dirty clothes on the chair as well. He limped over to the bed and sat down next to Sherlock.

“Hey,” he nudged him gently.

“Mfgh,” Sherlock grunted into the pillow.

John chuckled. “Let me help you get out of your clothes. You’ll appreciate it later.”

“John,” Sherlock murmured into the pillow. He sounded put out, but made an effort to roll over. He blinked at John a few times, taking in his state of undress. His eyebrows both slowly wandered upwards.

“Oh,” John grinned crookedly. “Don’t worry. Nothing like that. But you’ll be more comfortable.”

He saw Sherlock’s cheeks flush slightly, and felt his breath catch a little in response. He quickly looked away, before he said something stupid about the sight Sherlock presented right now, stretched out languorously and sleepy on the wide bed. His limbs were tangled in the sheets, his entire body one long, graceful line of temptation. John felt his hand twitch, eager to run his fingers down Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to John’s hands, and John saw his eyes darken a little even as they crinkled fondly. “Hey,” he said. Then he reached out and took John’s hand, interlacing their fingers. John gave them a squeeze, and felt one in return. He smiled and nodded once, then let go of Sherlock’s hand to slip under the covers. He watched in the semi-darkness as Sherlock sat up to take off his shirt and trousers too.

Finally, the blankets moved as Sherlock crawled back next to him. He rolled over on his side. “John?” his voice was muffled by the pillow, his eyes were already closed.

“Yes?”

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled.

John grinned. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

A hand crept towards his under the covers and curled slowly, hesitantly around John’s. John sighed and held on tightly. Sherlock’s breathing began to even out, and soon, John followed him into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

John awoke, feeling rested but disoriented. He remembered that they’d gone to bed in the late morning, completely exhausted. He blinked in the darkness and rolled over to find the only light source as his eyes latched onto a red glow from his bedside table. It was after 9 in the evening. He could hear faint hotel sounds through the walls and some traffic outside. But he was mostly drawn to the quiet breathing next to him.

Sherlock was still soundly asleep, it seemed, curled around his pillow, his knees brushing John’s legs. It should have been an endearing moment, but somehow, John felt disturbed by the stillness. He couldn’t immediately figure out why. All he knew that his heart had begun hammering in his chest.

John lay on his back, just breathing for a moment. Less than twenty-four hours ago, they’d been dancing; then the long drive to Cornwall, the night spent cramped up in a cellar in the certain belief they would die; the escape. A strange pressure weighed on John and he suddenly realised with a start that he was still reeling from the shock of what had happened. Yes, it felt like a panic attack, like something creeping up from his nightmares to clench around his throat.

He’d thought Sherlock was dead; yes, only for a moment – but it brought back a whole train of dark thoughts from his time before, when he had been alone. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He glanced over at Sherlock, careful not to disturb him, and shimmied out from under the duvet. He sat up, drawing slow, calming breaths, steadying himself on the mattress.

After a moment, John got up and went to the bathroom, ignoring the faint throbbing from his ankle. He splashed some water in his face and then went to look for his phone. He dug it out of his jacket pocket only to find it long dead, the charger probably still in Sherlock’s bedroom in Hampshire. He tip-toed over to the window, drew the curtain aside a bit and looked out, before his gaze wandered. On a small side-table under a large mirror was a cheerful welcome note from the staff. It came accompanied with two tiny bars of chocolate. Suddenly realising he hadn’t eaten all day, John made quick work of the chocolate and then went in search of the mini-bar. He curled up on the one arm chair in the room and polished off two small packets of crisps and a tiny bottle of orange juice, staring idly out of the window into the night.

With each blinking of the traffic lights and the regular hum of the cars going past, he slowly calmed down. His breathing evened out and he was left feeling winded as if he’d been punched in the gut. The weight of the danger had lifted and he could breathe again, but like when he was grieving Sherlock, there was an emptiness following in the wake of the panic that gnawed at him.

Suddenly, he tensed. There was a change in Sherlock’s breathing and then a rustle of fabric. The covers moved, and then, Sherlock sat up with a start, calling his name.

“I’m here,” John replied quietly, arrested by the sight.

“John,” Sherlock said, this time with relief. His curls were in disarray, his lips slightly parted. He was lit only by the coloured lights from the street, making his cheeks and naked shoulders shimmer oddly in the dark. His fingers were clasping the blanket tightly, still gripped by the same anxiety that had driven John out of bed.

John’s eyes were riveted to Sherlock’s and he saw his apprehension twist and change into something else. His eyelids fluttered lightly before he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out steadily. His hands unclenched from the blanket, and he lowered his head a little. Then, he opened his eyes again, looking up at John. The expression in them had completely shifted and was now unmistakeably something much more heated.

John felt his heart beat rapidly as he realised that there was only one thing he needed to fill the growing emptiness in him. The only thing he’d ever need, from now on.

He stood up slowly, his eyes never straying from Sherlock’s. He stepped up to the foot of the bed, his breath heavy as want spread through him. Sherlock audibly sucked in a breath and tentatively held out his hand. It was all the invitation John needed.

He took the hand and let himself be pulled forwards until he was kneeling on the bed. One of his thighs was between Sherlock’s long legs, silhouetted under the covers. He was sitting, the blanket pooled on his lap, exposing smooth and strong shoulders and a soft smattering of hair on his chest.

John gently raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed the inside of his wrist. As soon as he made contact with the sensitive skin, Sherlock let out a breath and shivered, goose bumps rising. A similar shudder immediately tore through John as his arousal flared to life, demanding, driving him on. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling Sherlock’s pulse racing through his lips. He heard Sherlock sigh heavily; it made him bold. He slowly parted his lips and pressed his teeth against Sherlock’s wrist, scraping open-mouthed against the skin.

This time, Sherlock let out a small moan and he surged forward. His hand was ripped from John’s grasp and it slid roughly up into his hair. Sherlock pulled his head down sharply, crashing their lips together.

John felt the elation of relief followed immediately by racing desire. His hands sought out Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock’s other hand came up to hold him by the waist, steadying him. Warm lips were sliding against his, their breath mingling, neither wanting to let go to come up for air.

John slipped his hands around Sherlock’s back as he was pulled closer. Sherlock’s fingers ran through his hair, sending delicious tingles down his spine. He wanted to press closer, to cover Sherlock with his body, to press him down to the bed; but he didn’t quite know how to move, not wanting to let go to rearrange them. But Sherlock tugged and his leg pressed against John’s insistently. John felt his body give in and he toppled forward, where he now rested snugly against Sherlock’s body, straddling him. Both let out immediate groans at the contact and the sound only stoked his need.

Sherlock’s skin pressed against John’s, hip to chest, long arms encircling his body, one hand wrapped around his back, the other cradling his head. Sherlock’s kissing was relentless, forceful; John parted his lips and Sherlock immediately took the opportunity to plunge his tongue into his mouth. John moaned into the kiss. Sherlock pulled him closer and John took the opportunity to gather Sherlock firmly in his arms. With a grunt, he flipped them over, and Sherlock’s legs became even more tangled in the sheets. He pulled himself up with an angry growl and tore the blankets away, leaving John uncovered beneath him. In the faint light, John saw his eyes travel down his body, his throat move as he swallowed. He wore a look of fierce determination, and it nearly took John’s breath away.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Sherlock did not hesitate.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock awoke early. He took in the sensations surrounding him. His skin was naked under the covers, feeling a little sticky and messy, but generally more relaxed than he had been in _years_. John was still breathing quietly and peacefully next to him. Sherlock looked over and smiled. He brushed the back of his hand gently over the blonde hair, and John made a content little noise in his sleep. Sherlock let out a little huff, somewhat in disbelief. What a night.

He glanced at the clock. It was approaching 6 o’clock and considering he’d been asleep most of yesterday and through most of the night, he felt better rested than he could remember. This was about as much sleep as he usually caught in a week. He felt a little restless.

Quietly, he snuck out from under the covers and stretched. It was still dark out, and he decided to leave the lights off to let John sleep more. Silly waste of time to sleep so much, really, he thought, but after the ordeal of the previous night, perhaps he’d earned it. Sherlock proceeded to take a long, hot shower, wondering if John would object being woken up in a fashion reminiscent of last night, hoping he wouldn’t prefer to sleep even more. Surely that could wait.

When he came back into the room, John was looking at him blearily from the bed. “Sherlock?” His voice was thick with sleep and he tried to make him out in the dark.

“I’m here,” he said. He walked over to the bed, only wrapped in his towel. He saw John eyeing it and he could immediately tell that he was much more awake now.

“Good,” John rasped, sitting up. His eyes never left Sherlock’s as he gripped his hips with both hands. Sherlock felt his breath catch. Apparently there was no doubt about how John liked to be woken up. He felt anticipation rush through him and a small smile quirked on his lips. John mirrored it, and the desperate sincerity of last night was suddenly replaced with a feeling of mischief. John’s fingers dug into the towel and slowly peeled it away from his body, drawing him back under the blankets.

It wasn’t until later, when Sherlock was lying on his back, his breathing returning to normal, that he managed to voice his thoughts. “I didn’t know it could be like this.”

He had one arm behind his head, a rather sweaty and wonderfully warm John resting on his chest. Sherlock had his other arm around him and played with the hair in his nape.

John smiled into his skin. “Like what,” he murmured.

“Fun,” Sherlock replied truthfully.

John chuckled and snuggled a little closer, waiting for the new day to slowly wake up the world around them.

* * *

A few hours, another shower, and a hearty breakfast later, Sherlock and John made their way back to the hospital. They found Mary’s room on the second floor and knocked after a nurse had assured them that she was awake.

John went in first and Sherlock kept respectfully back to let John do all of the things people normally did. There was greeting and worried checks of Mary’s chart and reassuring and, most prominently, relief that they were all still alive and well. Sherlock let the two of them exchange these platitudes, watching Mary for any signs of pain. She was reclining in the hospital bed, a half-eaten breakfast and a magazine on her lap, still looking a bit pale and weak. The painkillers were doing their job, however, and it was obvious she was on her way to a full recovery.

Finally, he realised that the room had gone quiet and two pairs of eyes rested on him. He quickly assembled his thoughts. “You’ll still be in some pain for a few days, but the wound was not as bad as they thought,” he assessed.

Mary huffed. “Yeah, I got lucky. That asshole turned out to be a terrible shot and missed all the major organs. I just lost a lot of blood. Or so the doctors tell me,” she added with a quirked brow.

“For once, they seem to have gotten it right,” Sherlock allowed. He was curiously aware of her way of putting things. Of course Moran had been an _excellent_ shot; he just hadn’t factored in Mary jumping in to push Sherlock out of the way. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he saw her smile ruefully at her lap for a moment. When she looked back up, he allowed himself to smile back at her.

John, oblivious of their little exchange, raised his hands in surrender. “What, you have x-ray vision now?” He laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, mock-serious, which made John grin.

Mary sighed. “So what happens now? Are you going back to London?”

John looked at Sherlock. “Are we?”

Mary lay back and made a face. “God, I hope I won’t have to stay much longer, I’m bored to tears already.”

Sherlock let out a huffed laugh. “I could ask Mycroft if he can transfer you back to London,” he offered. “I’m sure taking out a major threat to national security should help with cashing in favours.”

“Technically, that was you,” she allowed. “But don’t bother. The hospitals there aren’t much more interesting. I’ll be fine in a few days anyway. If you could get me a laptop or something, that would be grand.”

She stopped when they both realised that John had gone a bit quiet. Mary cocked her head. “John?”

John looked up, directly at Sherlock. “You’re going to be fine, aren’t you?” There was a seriousness in his voice that left no doubt as to what he meant.

Sherlock swallowed. Shooting Moran… it had happened so quickly, in a life or death situation; he hadn’t exactly wanted to do it, but there hadn’t been another choice. If he hadn’t, John would be dead. He suddenly remembered a case, almost two years ago, when a mysterious army doctor had waltzed into his life and shot someone for him the next day. He could finally relate.

Sherlock lowered his head for a moment. “I believe the circumstances will be enough for Mycroft to make sure neither of us will be prosecuted. Don’t worry, John,” he added, finding that his voice had softened automatically. “We did his job for him. All of us.” He looked at Mary again. “It won’t be an issue.”

Mary nodded. After a moment, John sniffed and then nodded too. He held out a hand. Sherlock, without thinking, took it, feeling a lump in his throat. John held on tightly and then held out his other hand to Mary. She looked a little surprised and glanced at their clasped hands with a small smile. She pressed her lips together and took his hand. John squeezed their hands and smiled at them both, and Sherlock felt that finally, things had settled firmly into place once more.

They stayed for a surprisingly long visit, talking and enjoying a strange new camaraderie. Sherlock had to admit that she made a worthy addition to their little circle, as he thought of it, and he wasn’t too proud to admit that jealousy had made him colder towards her than necessary. He hadn’t apologized for his breakdown, but Mary didn’t seem to be holding it against him.

Just before they left to grab some food, Sherlock turned around one last time, holding Mary’s gaze for a long moment, and then said, “thank you, Mary.”

Mary only nodded once. “You’re welcome,” she said and smiled.

* * *

John and Sherlock spent another day in the Plymouth hotel – finding the bed much preferable to anywhere else. John said that he felt they needed to make up for lost time and Sherlock surely was not about to complain.

During the afternoon, however, Mycroft showed up and took them to a back office he’d probably commandeered from the hotel staff to have them confirm their statements on the ‘mission’. They’d been conveniently pre-written and somewhat edited, throwing their impromptu trip to Cornwall into a more official light. Also, it was merely mentioned that Moran was shot in the ensuing escape, with no particulars as to the how and by whom. John eyed the document warily, as if it would suddenly turn out to be written in invisible ink or some such nonsense, before he sighed and, as he put it, ‘put his life into Mycroft’s hands once more’.

Sherlock took in his tight posture, stress settling in his shoulders, and he felt that he should probably reassure John that nobody was going to mess with his life again if he could help it. Perhaps he should show him in one of the wholly new ways that were now open to him. He glanced over John’s face briefly and felt a small smile on his lips.

However, when they were done, Mycroft turned to John. “Would you give us a moment?”

John raised his eyebrows and looked at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes, but nodded his assent. John gave them both a _look_ , and then hobbled outside. Sherlock’s eyes followed him. He could be halfway back to the room by now, starting on undressing John in the elevator. Instead, he had to spend more tedious minutes talking to Mycroft.

“Go on then, or haven’t you got a third lunch to get to or something?”

“I realise…” Mycroft began, but then stopped himself.

Sherlock looked over, frowning. “What?” he asked, a little surprised.

Mycroft sighed. “You know what, let’s just… stop with the bickering and the stupid games for a moment,” he rubbed a hand down his face and dropped into a chair.

Sherlock cocked his head. This was really not like Mycroft. He usually loved their stupid bickering. He frowned and sat down as well.

Mycroft looked at him for a long time, lines of exhaustion and worry etched into his features. “You know, straightening this whole thing out was a hell of a lot of work, and I—“ he paused. “I just need— I wanted to ask, Sherlock. _Are you all right_?”

Sherlock was silent, processing this. Mycroft, likely as not, somehow knew the whole story. He certainly knew about him and John. So perhaps, just this once…?

Sherlock sighed. He looked into his lap. “Yes, I am all right,” he said, quietly.

Mycroft let out a breath. “Good.” Sherlock looked back up and met his eyes. The usual calculating coldness had still not returned. Instead there was this… emotional wreck that looked like his brother but sounded like a completely different person. “And… John?”

“John is… going to be fine,” Sherlock said, believing that to be the most honest answer. He thought for a moment. “Thank you for sorting things out,” he added. “For me… and him. And Mary. I know he appreciates it. Probably more than I do.” _More than I can_ , he thought.

Mycroft, still in this peculiar mood, simply nodded. Then, a somewhat fond smile appeared on his lips. Sherlock blinked, sure he must be imagining things. “Good luck with everything, little brother,” Mycroft said warmly.

Sherlock swallowed and studied Mycroft’s face intently. He felt a strange heaviness in his chest. He nodded once, and, feeling dismissed, got up to leave.

“And… Merry Christmas,” Mycroft added.

Sherlock actually smiled at that. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

* * *

It was the thirtieth of December and John and Sherlock were finally home. Mary was back at her flat as well, with assurances to call the minute she needed help with anything.

The flat was still a mess from the incident with the exploding car – but some ‘magical Christmas elves’, as John maintained, had come in and fixed their windows, so at least they wouldn’t have to freeze. John spent a good deal of time for the first two days just cleaning up and throwing away broken things and making sure that Sherlock did at least pretend to help. He realised he was too much in love to care what a lazy sod Sherlock was, simply content to just spend time with him and talk whilst he sorted things out.

Mrs Hudson had returned from spending Christmas with her sister and fussed endlessly over John ( _his ankle_!) and Sherlock ( _nearly getting himself killed_!) after she learned a brief, edited version of what had happened. Sherlock’s parents had shown up as well and brought their things from the house (John finally charged his phone) and fussed over them some more; Margaret in particular picked up on the changed nature of their relationship rather quickly and seemed pretty chuffed about it, winking at John whenever she got the chance. Richard shook John’s hand warmly and gave him a silent thanks for everything that John felt to his core.

John was still revelling in the fact that he was now allowed to fully express how he felt every day, evaporating a lot of the strain he’d been feeling the past weeks into a feeling of content joy. Added to that, Sherlock seemed to pick up on it when he felt tense or worried and seemed to think that taking John to bed immediately was the best way to deal with that. John hadn’t told him to stop. He found himself smiling more often than not, and randomly touching Sherlock whenever he felt like it had become his new habit. Sherlock still seemed surprised almost every time it happened, and John felt even better for surprising him with these changes to their routine.

The first night they’d been home, John had patiently waited for Sherlock to invite him to his room, or waited for a chance to invite Sherlock up to his; however, Sherlock had been in full thinking mode, staring absent-mindedly out of the window. Finally, a tired (and quite horny) John hadn’t been able to take it anymore. He’d gone up, stripped to his boxers and a t-shirt, got ready for bed in the bathroom and then casually leaned in the kitchen doorway.

“So, if you’re not using that large bed of yours, any chance I could—?”

Sherlock turned around, frowning. He took in John’s entire body and casual tone and then pressed his lips together. “You know I don’t sleep as much as you do,” he said carefully.

John cocked an eyebrow and gave him a small smirk. “I know,” he said in the most meaningful way he was capable of. Inside, his stomach was giving nervous flutters; he had no idea if this wasn’t horribly embarrassing to Sherlock, or how to approach the subject in any other way.

So he just turned around and walked back to Sherlock’s room, hoping beyond hope that the infuriating man had gotten the message.

After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock followed him. He stood in the doorway to his own bedroom, watching John get into bed. John paused. He searched Sherlock’s face and noticed that there seemed to be a hint of insecurity there that he’d never noticed before. He smiled and got back up again. He padded over to Sherlock and quickly made a decision.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, his voice dropping low. He trailed his hand up Sherlock’s abdomen and felt a shiver under his palm. “Come to bed with me?”

He saw Sherlock’s eyes darken. He didn’t say anything, but he stepped closer, lowered his head and began kissing John and didn’t stop until they were sprawled on top of each other once more.

After that, John ended up being in such a fantastic mood that he actually organised them a New Year’s Eve party. He didn’t tell Sherlock until the invites had been made, knowing that he’d try to dissuade him from it. But he’d called anyone he could conceivably call a friend, perhaps also to celebrate the new beginnings they now faced.

“I mean it, John. You are overly sentimental and I know you will try something,” Sherlock complained on the day.

“I swear I will be a perfect gentleman,” John smirked, hanging up some decorations on their newly glazed windows.

“I am not kissing you in front of a bunch of idiots only for them to gape at us,” Sherlock groused and threw himself onto the couch with a huff. “Or take pictures,” he said with disgust.

John smiled. “They’re not going to make fun of you,” he tried. It was, frankly, quite funny already seeing Sherlock actually worry about something like that, but surely their friends wouldn’t… John paused.

“You know I’m right,” Sherlock grumbled, eyeing him. “You invited Molly, after all.”

John pursed his lips. He had to admit, Sherlock had a point.

He watched as the man unfolded himself from the couch again and prowled slowly closer. “The last time you had a chat about our relationship, you both ended up _crying_ ,” he accused.

John let out a surprised laugh. “I thought you didn’t know! I thought you were genuinely clueless about what was the matter with us!”

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock sniffed. “Just because I don’t indulge in sentiment doesn’t mean I don’t recognize it now and again.”

John dropped the fairy lights he’d been holding on the table and stepped closer to wrap his arms around Sherlock. “Now and again?”

“Hm.” A small smile was threatening to break the sulky expression already.

“And what about some of the things you said last night,” John murmured, dropping his voice a bit lower. Sherlock’s arms came up to wrap around him now, too. “Sounded a bit sentimental to me,” he grinned, looking up at Sherlock, seeing the smile win out.

“Perhaps. But only when there’s no one else listening,” Sherlock said, his voice a purr in John’s ear and against his chest.

“Now and again,” John repeated and Sherlock chuckled. “How about now?”

* * *

It was New Year’s Eve and Mycroft was surprised to find that he was enjoying himself. He had been surprised (pleasantly so) at John’s sudden invitation, and knowing that it would annoy Sherlock if he accepted, he of course had to come. There was only a small crowd at Baker Street, but it filled the small sitting room almost to the brim.

There was Mrs Hudson, of course, and her ginger biscuits were excellent; they reminded him of his grandmother, whom he had been quite fond of as a child. He was always surprised how much Sherlock let her treat him like a mother would, while he hardly let their actual mother do as much. It was quite amusing watching her fuss over him and Sherlock trying to keep a balance between seeming annoyed and actually enjoying it.

There was a shy looking girl who he deduced worked in a morgue, probably some sort of work liaison, then; as well as a chubby man who he believed to be a former colleague of John’s from St. Bart’s. Then of course, there was Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, the man Mycroft had solely to thank for saving his brother’s life when Sherlock wouldn’t have let anyone else do it, least of all himself. He’d raised his glass at him once and gotten a respectful and quite charming smile in return.

He sipped his wine and felt entertained enough by his various musings on his brother and his guests. However, glancing around he spotted the only person he found actually interesting to talk to standing alone by the window. He made his way over to her, greeting her with a nod.

“Mary,” he said genially.

“Oh, hello!” She gave him a smile. “Happy New Year and all that,” she said and chinked their glasses. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Actually, yes,” Mycroft answered truthfully.

Mary snorted. “You sound surprised,” she pointed out.

“Yes, well. I don’t usually socialize.”

“I believe you,” she said with a smirk. “You don’t strike me as the life of the party.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he said, with a slight incline of his head. They sipped their wine in silence for a moment. Mycroft realised that he did have a reason for coming over here, except the fact that Mary was someone next to whom one could stand quietly without it feeling uncomfortable. There was something he’d been wondering about, throughout this entire case.

“May I ask a personal question?” he began.

Mary cocked her head, giving him a sardonic smile. “I may choose not to answer it, but you can certainly ask,” she said drily.

His lip curled up in a smile. “Naturally,” he said. He pointedly let his eyes wander through the crowded sitting room, finally settling on John. He was leaning against the backrest of his chair, casually holding a drink (not his first). Sherlock was standing next to him, a relaxed smile on his face. They were talking to DI Lestrade, who was staring at both of them incredulously. John suddenly let out a roar of laughter and wiped at his eyes. “…you’re having me on!” the DI could be heard exclaiming over the din of voices and the music coming from the radio. Sherlock grinned genuinely and his eyes kept straying to John, who was slowly recovering, still holding his stomach. He looked happy and unguarded and Mycroft allowed himself a little smile to celebrate it.

“You’re quite fond of your brother, aren’t you?” Mary asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I am. Though I don’t think he understands it.”

She laughed a little. “You’re probably right.” She turned back to him. “So what did you want to know?”

Mycroft kept his eyes on John for a moment, then glanced back at her. “John Watson is quite a catch,” he said. Mary raised her eyebrows. “You like him. Why did you end your relationship?”

Mary regarded him for a moment. “I’d like to think of it as choosing to ‘stay friends’ instead of trying to enter a relationship,” she said.

“Fair enough,” he conceded. It wasn’t really important what she chose to call it.

“I’m not quite sure what you want to hear,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“Your honest opinion, of course. Otherwise why bother asking?” _Or whatever lie you choose, it would be interesting either way._

Mary smiled, but it looked a bit less chipper now. “Well.” She glanced back at John and Sherlock. “I thought it was obvious,” she said, giving Mycroft a look. “I don’t like playing second fiddle.”

“I see,” Mycroft said. “Curious.” He paused for a moment. “Pardon me for being blunt, but I don’t think John would have stopped seeing you if you hadn’t broken it off. Frightfully loyal man.” Mycroft sighed and took another sip of wine.

“Yes,” Mary mused. “I think you’re right.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows went up. He was surprised that she agreed so readily. He’d expected her to snap at him and walk away, angry for his intrusive comments.

“But can you imagine… being with someone and always wondering: what if that other person hadn’t gone away? Would he still have chosen me?”

Mycroft studied her face. “No, I’m afraid I cannot quite imagine,” he said quietly.

Mary looked at him again. “I like John. I want him to be happy. Both of them,” she said. “Took them long enough.”

“Hmmyes…” Mycroft drawled. “They did seem to be a little bit stuck at some point. I tried giving both of them a few hints in that direction, but they are very stubborn men.”

Mary laughed. “You were playing cupid, too? I don’t believe it,” she grinned.

“Infuriating, isn’t it,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.

“I don’t think they appreciate what we did for them,” Mary sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes.

“Ingrates,” Mycroft added as aristocratically as he could, and sipped his wine, and as he had predicted Mary broke out in a fit of very un-ladylike laughter.

They remained silent for a few minutes, both quietly observing. Mary had a way of being quiet and unnoticed if she chose, and Mycroft felt that he didn’t want to make anybody nervous today. He enjoyed simply watching.

John got Sherlock another drink and smiled up at him fondly. His hand lingered a little bit longer on his back than strictly necessary, and he saw DI Lestrade’s eyes nearly bulge out of his sockets, before he laughed and gave John a wink. John blushed.

“Then of course there’s the fact that I can’t compete with Sherlock Holmes,” Mary suddenly said, sounding a little dejected, her humour abated.

“No,” Mycroft assented, but then gave her another appraising glance. “But I believe apart from your attraction to traumatised army surgeons you do have other rather admirable qualities. Worth another look, certainly.”

Mary looked taken aback and a bemused smile appeared. “Why, Mr Holmes, are you flirting with me?”

“ _Oh dear Lord_ ,” Mycroft said in such an affronted manner that Mary laughed. “No offense to your physical qualities, but unlike my brother, I am absolutely uninterested in romantic entanglements of any kind. Too… messy,” he sneered a little and sipped his champagne.

Mary chuckled. “Physical qualities? You can be thankful you’re not interested in women, then, because one of us would have slapped you for that kind of remark eventually,” she muttered at him.

Mycroft found himself bristling a little. “Miss Morstan, I do not think that it quite behoves you to speculate any more about what I am or am not interested in. I was merely commenting on the fact that, as I have stated before, I may have found a use for you, after all.”

“Lovely,” she grinned. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“So you are interested? What about nursing?”

She glanced back at John and Sherlock. “I think I could do with something a little more exciting, to be honest.” Before Mycroft could comment, however, she bumped into him again, loudly changing the subject.

“ _However_ , you’ve had… ooh, I’d say about two glasses of champagne too many, and so have I, so I think you should comment some more on the _physical qualities_ of our dear Detective Inspector over there.” She nodded at Lestrade, who was laughing at something John said.

Mycroft hastily took another sip of champagne. “I beg your—“

“You should be able to by now – you certainly had more than _just another look_ ,” she teased. To make matters worse, she even bumped into his side with her elbow. Mycroft groaned.

* * *

“What are you doing out here?” John peeked into the corridor, where Sherlock was standing by himself. He was leaning against the railing, looking at his phone.

“What? Oh, I’m just taking some notes about an experiment I want to try…” he typed something into the phone, not looking up.

“Sherlock, it’s New Year’s Eve!” John ambled out into the hallway to join him, twirling his champagne flute. It was a bit quieter here, the laughter and music from the sitting room a bit dimmed and the light was low. John looked at Sherlock. He’d taken off his suit jacket at some point and the top button of his shirt was undone, his hair artfully ruffled as usual. And John was fairly sure he’d never seen anyone so lovely in his life before.

“So what?” Sherlock grumbled. “It’s an arbitrary date to which humans decided to ascribe significance. They make sentimental resolutions that they won’t keep, just so they can feel better about themselves for a few days. It’s an excuse to get drunk, as if we needed another; it’s tedious. I’m just waiting out here until everybody leaves.”

John laughed. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” He leaned against the railing and sighed. Perhaps it would have been better to just ring in the New Year, alone, in Sherlock’s bed instead. At the same time he hadn’t enjoyed himself quite so much in months. He found himself momentarily distracted by Sherlock’s proximity and smiled at him perhaps a little idiotically.

“John.”

“Hm?”

“Are you drunk?”

“A little.”

“Ah. That explains it,” Sherlock turned to face John. He looked amused and his smile was relaxed as his eyes quickly scanned John, as if he could read the exact alcohol content in John’s blood just by looking. (He probably could.)

“Explains what?” John narrowed his eyes. But Sherlock merely smirked and shook his head with silent enjoyment.

John snaked an arm around his waist. He heard some people inside the sitting room shuffle about, squealing ’get ready!’, and he quickly made a New Year’s resolution he intended very much to keep.

“Sherlock.” John shifted on his feet. “You know how you always say I’m a fool for sentiment?”

“Yes?” Sherlock looked vaguely intrigued. He loosely wrapped his arms around John in return and John felt warmth spread through him.

“You know I just can’t get enough of traditions and cheesy New Year’s things are right up my street.”

“I… guess so?” Sherlock grinned.

Inside the sitting room, John heard the countdown begin.

“10 – 9 …!”

He sighed. “I just wanted to say…”

“7 – 6 – 5,” the drunken chanting drifted through the flat. John shifted closer to Sherlock again.

“John?” Sherlock frowned, looking confused now.

“I missed you. More than you know,” John said, his heart full. He leaned closer, so their chests were almost flush, looking up. Sherlock’s eyes, somehow darker than usual, were riveted to John’s.

“3 – 2 – 1…”

John placed one hand on Sherlock’s chest. “You should know… I am yours, for however long you’ll have me.” He leaned up and kissed him.

Cries of _Happy New Year_ erupted from the sitting room, but all sounds were momentarily blocked from John’s mind except the small, needy noise he swallowed from Sherlock’s mouth. He felt the soft lips under his, breath tickle his skin, the solid chest pressed against his, and everything else simply evaporated. Despite their heated explorations in the last few days, this still was new and exciting and wonderful in all the right ways.

The kiss was sweet and simple and John hoped it conveyed something of what was going on inside him before he broke away. He stayed close to Sherlock for a moment, their noses almost touching.

“Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him, his lips slightly parted. His wide eyes suddenly began blinking rapidly. And then, with one deep breath, he pulled back a little; his brow was furrowed and John was shocked to see his eyes go a little misty. The next thing John knew was that he magnificently tripped over his own feet and had to hold on to the bannister to stay upright. As he wavered backwards, Sherlock’s hand shot out and grabbed onto his arm to stop him from falling. The sudden movement seemed to kick-start Sherlock back into reality.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice dark, his face becoming calm once more.

“Yes, ‘m fine,” John mumbled, looking at Sherlock’s hand on his arm.

“Perhaps you should… sit down.”

“Yes, good idea,” John said, and didn’t move from the spot.

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson burst out from the kitchen door and spotted their intimate embrace. “Oh!” she exclaimed before they could do anything about it, and “oh!” she cried again before she enveloped them both in a motherly hug. She had tears in her eyes as she pulled away. “I can’t tell you how happy I am, boys,” she gushed, sounding a little tipsy herself.

John glanced up to see Sherlock give her a fond smile. He knew that look now. For all his protests earlier, to Sherlock, Mrs Hudson was family, so of course if she was showering their new relationship with her blessings, that was certainly okay.

It wasn’t until two hours later that Sherlock finally ushered their guests (in various states of inebriation) into taxis and Mrs Hudson downstairs to bed. John was lounging in his armchair half asleep, and Sherlock stood by the window, holding on to the only New Year’s tradition he stuck with; he quietly played _Auld Lang Syne_ on his violin. When he was done, he turned around and John could just make out a genuine, lovely smile.

“Happy New Year, John.”

Just as he was drifting off, a hand brushed gently over his hair, and he heard Sherlock’s whispered voice. “I’m yours, too.”

John smiled and caught the hand; he pressed a sleepy kiss to it and then let Sherlock lead him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and encouraging me along the way. It is much appreciated! Find me on tumblr - julia-irian - and drop me a message if you like!


End file.
